


Azhâr

by yubiwamonogatari



Series: The Azhâr Series [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dwarf Culture, F/F, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fix-It, Fluff, Loads of pining, M/M, Pining, Politics, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Thorin in the Shire, and many many more tags to come as they happen most probably, azhar, diverse gender / sexualities / neurotypes, everyone lives au, happy ending!, mental health, world-building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 152,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4063402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yubiwamonogatari/pseuds/yubiwamonogatari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield slowly wakes to the sounds of Bilbo and his nephews talking softly, colder and heavier than he has ever been in his life, but before he can get a word out Bilbo is punching him square on the nose. Quite rightly, as it turns out, because he's been dead for a week and has just sat up in his tomb with no warning whatsoever. </p><p>Following the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies where Thorin must fight with his own guilt and mind over his choices and what they mean and meant, where he must decide whether or not to rule, and how to live with himself after dying. Focusing on many different characters and relationships, as well as building on the lore of Erebor and Middle Earth. A story about coming home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! This is going to be a VERY LONG fic, I can tell you that now, with many twists and turns and tags to be added along the way. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it! You can find me on [Tumblr](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul is at the end of the chapter. I'd also like to give an absolutely massive thanks to my fantastic beta Tex! You can find her work here under [texasdreamer01](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/pseuds/TexasDreamer01) so please check her stuff out, it's all amazing! You can also find her on [tumblr under the same username](http://texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) \- so if you liked this chapter, please feel free to shoot her a message too! 
> 
> I'd also like to extend a special thank you to my wonderful friend who is a linguistics student and who has gotten really excited by Khuzdul. She's incredibly bright and is able to understand the amazing works of the Dwarrow Scholar, and is helping me make sure I'm getting my Khuzdul as right as possible! [Please check her Tumblr out, too!](http://love-is-a-two-place-predicate.tumblr.com)
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), too, so please feel free to come and say hi if you'd like to!
> 
> The poems before each chapter section are the work of my beta, [Tex](http://texasdreamer01.tumblr.com)! And the fanart in this chapter is by the wonderful [Pop](http://poplitealqueen.tumblr.com/post/135479573664)! Thank you so much!!!
> 
> Enjoy!

_T.A 2941_

_October 28th_

 

  

Thorin was surrounded by darkness so solid it was as if a blanket had been wrapped warm and thick around every inch of him. He was thoroughly engulfed, weightless in his suspension. Yet he was cradled. Tucked securely in the hollow between a thumb and finger, kept aloft, and safe. There was no pain, no discomfort, no noise or light or movement.

Except he could feel something stir at the forefront of his mind. A whisper, slowly growing into a murmur. Something was calling him - quiet enough he couldn't make out the words. Suddenly it stopped, the void trembling around him in breathless anticipation.

Another voice cut in with strength enough to make him shake all over, as great and terrible as a thousand storms and as gentle and sweet as the smell of grass on the brink of rain, everywhere around him and solely inside himself all at once.

The darkness twisted and he was falling – or flying, he didn’t know which way was up or down or left or right – until it all seemed to thin around him. The soft voice calling to him started to filter back in, increasing in volume and firming around his body.

He was cold. And by Mahal, he was _heavy_.

A weariness lay upon his bones so stifling he felt crushed by the weight of it, his breathing slow and shallow – weak even to his own ears.

“I had always believed in him, I think. And of course when we were dropped off by the eagles after that frightful encounter with Azog and the goblins, well. That was the first moment I thought to myself... Bilbo, if anyone can take back a mountain from a dragon and survive, it's him. It was him.”

Bilbo.

Bilbo's voice, warm and laden with grief, and here he was too heavy to even open his eyes.

Where was he? Where were they? The last images he could claw up from the murk inside his head were the frozen lake, the feeling of his blade sinking – finally – into Azog's chest.

The sensation of Azog's blade sinking into his own.

For a second the memory of the pain and the fear made the darkness thicken around his whole being. Bilbo's voice faded, the images gory and painful until the hobbit's face – bruised and bloody – swam into his mind's eye.

 

_Thorin! Thorin, don't, please...!_

 

Were they still there? Was he still laying on the forsaken lake, Bilbo's smaller hands clinging to one of his own? He felt cold and stiff enough for it, and while he wasn't in pain there was a terrible weight to his limbs, as if his veins were filled with metal or stone.

“Oh, he had his moments though, didn't he? Remember when we were walking in Mirkwood – before that terrible magic really got to us – and he all but tripped over that tree root? Why, I thought he was going to chop the whole forest down in revenge!”

Laughter followed Bilbo's words, weak and as if through tears – the voices of more than one other with him.

Fíli and Kíli both, he realised a bleary second later, sounding frail and fragile. All but broken.

It took more strength than he thought he had to open his eyes, and a few more seconds after for them to adjust to the low firelight in the room. Stone rose far above him, torches hanging in brackets against the walls. Erebor. They were in Erebor, but... this wasn't the medical tent. It was too cold, and it felt as if he was laying on bare stone.

Those markings on the walls... Surely it wasn't the Royal Tombs...?

Orcrist was in his hands, laying down from his chest to his belly, his fingers painfully stiff and crossed around the handle. Everything inside him had suddenly begun to scream out he had to move. _N_ _ow_. He had to sit up, had to find out what in Mahal's name was happening.

With a clatter Thorin let go of Orcrist and pushed it away, the sword falling to his side as he dragged himself up to sit with a long, low, wheezing groan, every muscle aching and protesting the movement. Bilbo, Fíli, and Kíli were all stood beside him, all three faces slack with shock and fear, noses and eyes red with shimmering tear-tracks down their cheeks, and white enough Thorin's heart lurched to see them in such a state.

He opened his mouth.

The last thing he saw before he was forced back into unconsciousness was Bilbo's little fist smashing into his nose, the noise of his nephews and the hobbit screeching echoing around the room as the blackness crashed back into him and he was returned to the darkness.

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

Thorin came to with a low groan, his nose and face aching, though this time he felt distinctly less sluggish and much warmer. He blinked, the ceiling swimming into view. A different ceiling, one studded with gems and lit warmly with firelight. He was definitely in a bed this time, the blankets wrapped tightly around him and making it difficult to move. The heat from furred skins filled with hot water placed around and over his body was comforting, lifting the weight from his bones.

“Thorin...?”

A voice startled him and he looked over to his right, blinking blearily at the veritable crowd gathered by the side of his bed.

Fíli and Kíli, both looking pale, tearful, and wan were sat on chairs, Bilbo between them with his hands tight on their shoulders. Around them stood Óin and Glóin, Bifur, Bombur, and Bofur, and then Nori, Dori, and Ori, flanked by Dwalin and Balin, and finally Gandalf.

Shock and fright was clear on each and every one of their faces – even Gandalf's. Thorin frowned, licking his lips and swallowing a few times so he could speak, his voice raspy.

“... What...?” was all he managed to get out before every single one of them gasped sharply. Almost as one the company dissolved into tears and shouts, hugging and clinging to each other with grins on their red faces – except Gandalf who simply bowed his head, and Bilbo who was staring at him with a wild expression, Thorin's chest tightening as their gazes locked for a second.

He groaned as his nephews flung themselves forwards, clinging to him. Thorin brought his hands up with all the strength he had, dropping them onto their heads to touch their hair, his throat tightening a little.

His memories were blurred, random images. They didn't seem to fit together, misshapen puzzle pieces with jagged edges, biting at him as he tried to piece them together and understand what was happening in the present moment at the same time. Fíli... there was something about Fíli, something stirring bile in his stomach, sweat pricking at the base of his spine.

“Well, now. This is an unexpected turn of events,” Gandalf said, a wide smile on his face as he moved to sit on the chair on the other side of Thorin's bed, Bofur's hands gentle on Fíli and Kíli's shoulders as he gently pulled them back.

“Careful now, lads, or you'll open up the stitches on all three of you.”

“Stitches...” Thorin repeated, voice quiet as he dropped his gaze to look at his nephews torsos – his stomach lurching, “Fíli, you... the tower...” he breathed, fingers splaying weakly over swathes of bandages as images flickered and danced in front of him, becoming clearer until they jerked into animation. Azog's blade, gleaming and then wet with blood, Fíli's wide, terrified eyes, his blond hair whipping around his face, and more blood, and then his fall and...

“... How...? You... And Kíli...” he croaked, looking over to Kíli as his fingers brushed over his youngest nephew's chest, also bound tight with bandages, though he couldn't recall any memories of what Kíli had suffered.

“Quite the amount of elvish medicine,” Gandalf said cheerily as Óin pushed a cup of water to Thorin's lips to help him drink a little before moving back, still holding the mug in his hands. Thorin swallowed a few times, licking his lips and feeling the water flow like sweet relief down his throat.

He turned his gaze back to Fíli. The rest of the company had drawn close, crowding round the bed as they dried their tears and let Fíli speak.

“Azog--... he left the blade in me, uncle,” Fíli said, moving to sit on the chair Glóin had pushed up for him. He reached out to gently grip Thorin's arm, “And when I fell the handle snapped off, and it was left in me. Dwalin found me, he kept the orcs away, and then the eagles came,” he murmured as Kíli lowered himself into another chair beside Fíli's, Bilbo hovering just behind them, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Lord Elrond himself removed the blade, once the eagles had brought Dwalin and Fíli to him,” Gandalf added. Thorin was silent for a long moment, eyes wide but not seeing.

Fíli had fallen.

He had _watched_.

He had watched Azog push his blade through his nephew, watched his little body tumble lifeless from the tower to fall into the snow. He had felt the ripping, clawing pain of losing Fíli so clearly, the sickening guilt, the horror of it all. He had staggered back as the memories of Fíli as a newborn had slammed into him, memories of holding his nephew – small enough to lay across his forearm – and how he had whispered promises to protect him, of coming home after working the forges of men to a little head of golden hair leaping up into his arms, the beautiful, brave, strong dwarrow Fíli had become only to lose him because of his greed, his madness, his _quest_ \--

“Uncle...” Fíli's voice cut through his thoughts and he looked up. He realised just too late his eyes were burning and his cheeks were wet, and his company stood silent around him. His fingers trembled as he gripped Fíli's wrist, too tightly.

Thorin looked over to Dwalin, his life-long friend and ever loyal solider standing there with his stern features reddened and his hands fists by his side. His shoulders were drawn up and tight and if he hadn’t known the other for a century he’d have missed the tremble in his frame, the surging emotion under his skin. Thorin didn't have the words to express his gratitude for what he had done, guarding Fíli's body even as they had thought him dead. He swallowed hard, jaw working silently before he could speak again.

“... Then I owe both Dwalin and Lord Elrond thanks beyond measure,” he croaked, his weak voice tight as he unclenched his fingers from around Fíli's wrist, eyes flicking back to Dwalin who simply bowed his head.

“Yes, indeed,” Gandalf said softly, crooking a smaller, much warmer smile. Thorin turned his attention to Kíli, reaching up to touch his nephew's face. His hand fell back to the bed, too heavy to lift properly.

“And you too are injured,” he breathed.

“Though you did not see it, Kíli was thought to have suffered the same fate as Fíli by the hands of Bolg,” Gandalf nodded, and Thorin felt his heart seize, his fingers twitching. To have lost both his nephews...

“After Fíli, I--... after I thought he'd...” Kíli said, tears welling up in his eyes before he cleared his throat, gently gripping Thorin's hand, “I was fighting Bolg, with Tauriel, and she was injured and...” Kíli trailed off, his eyes widening and his pupils shrinking, not seeing or blinking for a second. Fíli put his hand gently on Kíli's shoulder, his brother jumping and grinning – too wide and too bright, “He pinned me down and tried to do the same as his father had to Fíli.”

“It was Thranduil who found them,” Gandalf said after a second of heavy silence, Thorin fighting the burning fire in his throat as he turned his head to look at the wizard, “Despite Tauriel's best efforts his wounds were too severe for her to heal. Thranduil carried Kíli back to the mountain, using his own skills to keep him alive until Lord Elrond could take over.”

“Mahal was smiling on the line of Durin that day,” Balin smiled as Thorin looked back at Kíli, the fire in his throat too hot to speak through, “I have never seen anyone survive wounds like them, not in all my years.”

“There's a lot to be said for elvish medicine,” Kíli mumbled, still squeezing Thorin's hand as he crooked a little smile, soft and genuine. Thorin nodded, closing his eyes and letting the world spin around him, as if he was drunk or had a fever. It was too much. Too much to take in, too much to bear all at once, too much to contemplate. He swallowed, forcing his eyes open.

“... But you are both moving, so soon after,” he whispered, his brow furrowed as confusion welled up past the screaming and roaring in his head.

The company went unusually silent, no one quite looking at Thorin until Gandalf cleared his throat.

“It has been a week, and to be truthful, both should not yet be out of bed.”

“A week...? I've been unconscious for a week...?” Thorin felt the confusion rise up stronger and brighter in him, a clashing, pounding noise between his ribs.

“No,” Bilbo said suddenly, his voice tight but quiet, cutting through the fog in Thorin's mind as he stepped forwards a little, his eyes fixed on Thorin’s own, “No. You've been dead for a week. Thorin, you were _dead_.”

Dead. _Dead_?

“I was with you,” Bilbo all but whispered as Bombur put a hand on the hobbit's shoulder, “I watched you die, I watched... I watched Beorn bring your body back to the mountain, I watched Lord Elrond close your eyes and your body be buried in ice until--...” Bilbo's voice cracked, his jaw snapping shut and his eyes bright with unshed tears. Ori and Dori put a hand each on Bilbo's arms and, for a moment, Thorin ached to reach and do the same. But he was too weak, and Bilbo was already grumbling something under his breath and rubbing at his eyes, Nori offering him a handkerchief seemingly conjured from the air.

“... But I'm alive,” was all he could get out, shifting on the bed and stilling when he felt something heavy move against his chest. He grunted, brow furrowed as he reached into his robe – an old one of his grandfather's, if he remembered correctly, fingers finding the pocket over his breast and something hard and cold inside. He drew it out, frowning at the dull, heavy, rock in his hand.

“What is this...?” he murmured, turning it shakily to catch the light. It was like no stone he'd seen before, a dark, murky red with black swirled through it, the edges perfectly smooth.

Gandalf reached forwards, slowly taking it. His eyes widened and he dropped it onto his robe, not touching it directly.

“... Was the Arkenstone not placed on Thorin's body, along with Orcrist...?” Gandalf asked, voice low and amazed.

“Aye, I put it there myself,” Balin breathed, “But it--... it cannot be the same stone, surely... someone must have taken it, though the room has been sealed off to all except the company, and it was only placed on you this morning...”

“Not me. This time,” Bilbo said after a breath of silence, putting his hands up. There was a pause, everyone staring at him.

 

 

Thorin snorted, the rest of the company breathing out shocked laughs of their own, Bilbo's cheeks and ears turning red even as he clasped his hands behind his back, rocking up onto his toes.

“Though you did punch me in the face, this time,” Thorin rasped out, the memory of it slamming into him as his nose gave a twinge, eyes fixed on Bilbo. Dead, but... he wasn't. They had to be wrong. Though how had he survived being packed in ice and snow...? Bilbo went pinker, the company laughing a little louder and Bifur signing something he missed, wringing a few more chortles from them.

“You... you _sat up_! You were laying there, dead - may I add - in your tomb, and you just... sat up! I thought you were some frightful ghost or Wight or something, or it was some terrible nightmare. It's an entirely natural reaction,” Bilbo huffed, crossing his arms.

Thorin could feel a smile tug at his lips for a brief second as he closed his eyes, utterly exhausted even as the question of the Arkenstone bothered him, as if he had been told something important he was now forgetting. Sleep tugged at the corners of his mind, plucking at the tips of his fingers and toes.

“All that matters now is that you are alive,” said Gandalf, Thorin grunting out a noise as he felt the wizard's hand on his shoulder, “I will look into this mystery. I shall take this with me to see if it truly is the Arkenstone, and I believe it is time for us to leave you to rest.”

“I should like that,” Thorin whispered.

Gandalf's hand disappeared and he grumbled as he felt Óin jostle him.

“Have a few sips of this, if you can,” he said as he held another mug to Thorin's mouth. Thorin groaned as he forced his eyes open and gulped down a few mouthfuls of some liquid, the taste like apples and honey, thin and crisp as water but as silky as hot, sweetened milk.

“Elvish,” Óin added, once Thorin had drunk enough the inevitable wrinkle of his nose and the reflexive way he drew back didn't mean he had to try to force anymore down him.

“It's very good for you, you know,” Bilbo said. “It's the same medicine that's helped so many of the wounded, including Fíli and Kíli.”

“I do not doubt it,” Thorin grumbled, and though he was on the verge of sleep he could feel warmth unfurling slowly in the depths of him. He heard rather than saw Bilbo's smile.

“But you do not like it.”

“No, I do not.”

“Well,” Bilbo said, Thorin cracking open an eye just long enough to see the hobbit sit down on one of the chairs beside his bed, “Thank goodness you're not too changed, or else this whole affair would be even more unnerving than it is already.”

Thorin snorted again, eyes slipping closed. He would have time to think about changes later. But now... now he had to sleep, Bilbo's voice soothing and gentle as he drifted back into the darkness.

“Someone should stay with him, I think,” Bilbo said – more to Óin than the departing company, “and you have other patients to attend to whilst I have an excellent book. I'll stay.”

Thorin didn't have the strength to reply or agree as he sunk back down into unconsciousness, but he hoped somehow Bilbo knew he was – once again – grateful for his company.

 

 

*

 

 

 

“No, you've both been out of bed long enough,” Óin said firmly, Bofur laughing gently as he helped the old healer guide Fíli and Kíli back into their beds as they groaned in unison.

“Irak'adad somehow wakes from the dead,” Fíli grumbled as Bofur put heated rocks around his body in the soft bed to keep him warm, “and we're not allowed to stay with him, or help find out how?”

“No, you're not. Bilbo's keeping an eye on him, Gandalf is speaking to the elves, and Thorin won't be pleased if he hears the both of you are worse now lads, would he?” said Bofur cheerily, taking the bowls of broth from Ori's hands as he bustled in with them.

“Gandalf says it is the Arkenstone,” Ori blurted out, “He tried its fit in the throne, and it sits perfectly! He's going to take it to Saruman, but he thinks it has some incredible magic in it!”

“Aye,” said Óin, checking Kíli's bandages as the young prince tried to bat his hands away, “Magic enough to raise the dead...” a silence fell over them all, the room seeming to grow a little colder.

“It seemed like him, didn't it?” Kíli said, suddenly, “I mean... it looked like him, and he sounded like him, mostly, and... he was tired and weak, but...” he gripped the bowl given to him by Bofur tight in his hands as he looked over to Fíli, who was staring into his own bowl.

“But he spoke like him, and he knew us... he remembered what happened to me, and he wept...” Fíli murmured.

“There's no point worrying about it now,” Bofur said comfortingly, “He's back. That's all that matters right now.”

“And only the Company knows he's back,” Ori added as Fíli heaved a sigh and started to eat, Kíli following his example, “No one will be prying. And if he is... changed... we still have Gandalf, and Lord Elrond...!”

Fíli snorted softly and looked up, crooking an eyebrow at Ori. “I somehow can't imagine elvish medicine and Gandalf could save him if he has been resurrected differently.”

“Well... no,” Ori admitted, clasping his hands in front of himself, “No, but... they'll be able to help. Somehow.”

“I don't think he'll be too pleased at that,” Kíli said, a little grin on his face, “And he did still recoil when Óin told him he was drinking an elvish draught, didn't he? That's very much like him...!”

“Aye, he did, hence why I didn't tell him 'til after he'd drank it,” Óin grumbled, tucking them both tightly into their beds and taking their empty bowls a moment later, handing them back to Ori.

“We'll deal with the rocks as they fall,” Bofur smiled, patting them both on their shoulders, “And right now Thorin's not the only one who needs to sleep.” Fíli and Kíli both shot him rueful little grins as Ori left the room with Óin.

“I'll be right outside the door if you lads need me,” the cheery dwarf added as he adjusted his hat, moving over to the door and opening it. He waved to them one last time and shut the door behind himself.

Fíli and Kíli fell silent before the younger dwarf shifted, looking over to brother.

“I think it is him, nadad. It has to be. Mahal wouldn't bring him back just to bring him back wrong, would he?”

“We don't know if Mahal brought him back. Gandalf's best guess is that the Arkenstone did – and for all we know, it's a dark power,” Fíli pointed out, voice low.

Kíli's face fell, his chin jutting out a little. Fíli breathed out a little sigh.

“Naddith, no one knows what's going to happen. But you're alive and unchanged, and so am I, and all we can do is hope the same goes for irak'adad,” Fíli murmured, smiling softly as Kíli sighed and nodded, relaxing back into the bed.

“... He has to be,” Kíli whispered. “He _has_ to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of Khuzdul used in order of appearance:
> 
> Irak'adad - Uncle  
> Nadad - brother  
> Naddith - little brother


	2. Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this, and thank you so much for all your support - wow! I'm really blown away by the responses I've had so far. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it! Also I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul is at the end of the chapter.
> 
> I'd also like to give an absolutely massive thanks to my fantastic beta Tex! You can find her work here under [texasdreamer01](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/pseuds/TexasDreamer01) so please check her stuff out, it's all amazing! You can also find her on [tumblr](http://texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) under the same username - so if you liked this chapter, please feel free to shoot her a message too!
> 
> Please feel free to come and say hi to me on [Tumblr!](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)
> 
> The art in this chapter was done by the amazing [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com) and the wonderful [Pop](http://www.poplitealqueen.tumblr.com), so please check them out! Thank you both so much!!!!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

_T.A 2941_

_October 29th_

 

 

 

Thorin cracked his eyes open, pushing his tongue around the inside of his dry mouth. He felt as if he had just emerged from a night shift in the forges - a little overheated with sweat prickling along his skin, his mind foggy and slow. He breathed out a long, steady breath through his nose as his memories started to seep back into him, as feeling crept back into his limbs.

“Thorin...?”

He glanced over, eyes focusing on the hobbit sitting beside him in a comfortable looking chair, wrapped up in a silvery blue cloak several sizes too big for him, his eyes and nose tinged red and a book closed on his lap. Bilbo crooked a little smile, leaning forwards to gently pat at the shape of Thorin’s arm buried under the blankets piled on top of him.

“Hello,” Bilbo whispered.

Thorin croaked out an approximation of a greeting, a frown tugging his lips as Bilbo breathed out a little laugh, his nose scrunching up with it. The hobbit slid the cloak off his shoulders and stood, dragging his chair closer to the bed and picking up a mug on the bedside table, leaning over to hold it to Thorin's lips.

“Here, drink. And before you turn your nose up, no - it's just water,” he added a little wryly, slipping one hand almost under Thorin's head to help lift it so he could drink comfortably. Thorin swallowed down a few glorious mouthfuls, Bilbo's fingers warm against his scalp, and as the hobbit took the mug back he was struck by the ghostly breath of snow and ice beneath and around him; a crescendo of pain beyond belief - and a release like a slow exhale, the darkness swirling over his vision, the feeling of little fingers in his hair and a heavy hand on his chest the very last thing to fade.

“... You were there,” Thorin murmured, his voice sounding choked with gravel, eyes fixed on Bilbo's face, “When I--...”

“Yes,” Bilbo breathed a second later, taking his hand back from Thorin's hair. His fingers tightened around the wooden mug until they went white and bloodless, his gaze fixing on the water, “Yes, I was there. I found you.” Thorin swallowed hard and shifted, trying to prop himself up on his elbows, “No, no, no,” Bilbo said quickly, brought out of his thoughts. He set the mug down and pushed firmly on Thorin's shoulders, “I'm under strict orders not to let you move. You've just come back from--... stop! Thorin!”

Thorin groaned, letting himself be pushed back down onto the bed.

“At least let my arms free, surely I can move those,” he grumbled. Bilbo huffed, keeping one hand on Thorin's shoulder as he dragged the blankets down, helping him bring his arms out to lay on top of them.

“There. Better?” he asked, his lips a little pinched but his eyes soft.

“Thank you,” Thorin flexed his fingers, and his muscles felt curiously heavy and slow. Bilbo watched, slowly sitting down in his chair again.

“... Óin says you've wasted, a little. Being dead for a week will do that to you.”

“Dead,” Thorin repeated faintly, finally looking around the room properly as his mind all but baulked at the word and what it meant.

It was a little bedroom, but it was definitely of a high quality. Jewels were embedded in the rock in the shapes of constellations, and a vein of opal shimmering in a play-of-colour ran through the middle to form the star-cloud that stretched in a long line all across the night's sky. Fakaku Mahal as it was known to them - the bridge between this world and the Halls.

The furnishings were made of mostly stone, but the bed and the fur-padded chair Bilbo was once again sat in were made from wood; an old, faded rug sitting below a low table in front of the merrily crackling fire in the fireplace. It had to be a high-ranking servant's room, or something of that nature.

“Believe me, you were very... very dead,” Bilbo said, his voice quiet and hollow, Thorin's gaze flicking back to him. The hobbit was all but huddled on the chair, his knees tucked against his chest in a way that Thorin couldn't imagine he'd have been able to do before the quest. He was silent for a long moment, his thoughts and emotions and memories swirling and whirling around inside his foggy head too quickly, too fleeting to capture properly.

All he knew was that Bilbo looked as if he had aged a lifetime, his once glowing skin stretched thin and grey, dark like coal soot in places, his eyes somehow too big in his head. He had lost weight, and sleep, and while there were no discernible injuries on his person, he had clearly suffered greatly.

“I... I am so sorry,” he croaked, “to have lead you to--”

“--such peril, yes, I know,” Bilbo said tersely. He leaned forwards to press his forehead against his knees, face hidden and his curls so much longer than Thorin ever remembered them being. Thorin swallowed, a burn in the hollow of his throat as his fingers twitched. When Bilbo spoke again, his voice was muffled.

“Don't you remember what my reply was?”

His reply...? Thorin closed his eyes, trying to focus on his memories. The ice. The blood, the _pain_ , oh the pain he could still feel like an after-quake in the depths of him, terrible enough to make his empty stomach twist. The sky above him, and then...

_… Bilbo..._

_No, don't move, don't move, lie still-- oh. Mhn. Mhhn._

_I'm glad you're here..._

_Shhh shh shh shh..._

_I wish to part from you in friendship--_

_You are not going anywhere, Thorin. You're going to live._

_I would take back my words and my deeds at the gate. You did what only a true friend would do. Forgive me. I was too blind to see it. I am so sorry that I have lead you to such peril._

“... I am glad to have shared in your perils,” Thorin whispered, the memory striking at him like a hammer on white-hot metal, sparks tingling along his skin vivid enough to make the hair on his arms rise.

“Each and every one,” said Bilbo, finally lifting his head. He dragged his sleeve across his red, tired looking eyes and blew out a short breath through his lips, “So that's quite enough of all that nonsense. I have no desire to go through it all again, thank you very much.”

Thorin nodded his head, managing to bring his hand up far enough to rub his palm over his face, weariness still deep in his bones. Later. When he was stronger and Bilbo looked less like he had been made of glass, left to gather dust. He would... he would apologise again. For all he had done. All he had failed to do.

“... This all feels like some dream,” he murmured, hand falling back to the bed. Bilbo stood once more, going over to the fireplace and picking up a bowl tucked into a little nook for keeping food warm. He plucked up a wooden spoon and – after a brief hesitation – sat down on the bed beside Thorin, the bowl in his lap. Thorin breathed in the smell, his stomach gurgling loudly in a way that had a little smile jumping to Bilbo's lips.

“I know,” Bilbo said softly, “Do you have the strength to...?” he asked, trailing off and gesturing to the bowl. Thorin tried to lift his arms, but a sharp ache raced all the way down them and he couldn't hold them up for more than a few seconds before they shook so badly he had to drop them again.

“No,” Bilbo breathed, the tips of his ears going pink, “Right. Well. Óin said you had to eat this – if you could – when you woke up.”

“I do not wish to be fed like an infant,” he grumbled, just as his stomach gave another loud growl. Bilbo quirked an eyebrow.

“I do not wish... for you to have to-- ... for me to-- …! You will think-- ...” Thorin gritted out, a prickly burn rising in his chest as he looked away, his jaw set in a scowl and his fingers loose fists on the blankets, his emotions a whirlwind inside him. Bilbo would think him weak. Pathetic. Even more so than he was already.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Bilbo cut in sharply, his tone tightening, “What on earth do you imagine I'll _think_? I watched your very life bleed out of you, I believe I can handle _this._ ”

“It's not right,” Thorin growled, looking back at him with a scowl twisting his lips. Bilbo scowled right back, his eyebrows shooting up and then furrowing, his jaw tightening. When he spoke again his tone was razor-sharp.

“Now look, Thorin Oakenshield. I watched Beorn carry your bled-out body like you were a rag doll back to the mountain. I watched Lord Elrond and Gandalf work on your corpse to try and revive you, I watched them stitch up your wounds and clean the blood from you, and I watched them pack you in ice and snow so you would not _rot_ , I watched--”

“--Bilbo--” Thorin breathed. Bilbo's words crashed into him like tumbling boulders and his gaze glued to Bilbo's expression, the way he was sitting up so straight and tense he seemed carved from rock, his eyes flashing in the firelight. He snapped his jaw shut as Bilbo shoved a finger suddenly in his face, moving forward as quick as an arrow and almost spilling broth onto the blankets. He all but crowded Thorin against the headboard, his nostrils flaring.

“--No, don't you dare interrupt me, don't you _dare_. I watched them thaw you and dress you and put you in that horrible _tomb_ , and I watched your nephews sob over your dead body, and I watched you defy even death itself to sit up, so if you think I can't watch you being fed some silly broth by my own hands then you--! You-- ...!” Bilbo drew himself back, his cheeks flushed red and a muscle in his jaw jumping, his breathing sharp and quick.

“... I have seen many things that are not right. Many terrible, terrible things. And if you think me having to feed you is one of them, then you are, quite frankly, the most idiotic dwarf I have ever met,” he finished, slumping a little even as fire still burned in his eyes, “So if you meant all that you said out there then, as Glóin would say, put your pick where the diamonds are and let me help you, or so help me I will hold your mouth open and poor this broth down your throat whether you are agreeable or not.”

Thorin finally breathed out. The air left him in one long rush from where he was holding it, ending in a breathless chuckle even as Bilbo crossed his arms the best he could, bowl in one hand and spoon in the other.

“Very well,” Thorin smiled, “You have turned quite fearsome, it seems. The hobbit I met in the Shire would not have dared that speech – nor punched me so squarely on the nose,” he added, Bilbo glowering at him as he waved the spoon at his face.

“Are you trying to make me cross?”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Thorin chuckled, lips twitching into another little smile as Bilbo blinked, the spoon stilling as he opened and closed his mouth a few times. He shook his head, snapping it shut with a little huff and moved closer, setting the bowl down so he could pile the pillows behind Thorin to prop his head up. He picked up the bowl again.

Bilbo dipped the spoon into the broth as Thorin breathed out another soft laugh, “Well. That's... dwarves give very odd compliments, you know. Why, I had someone tell me just yesterday that I had a very big nose – and it was apparently a compliment! Really, the cheek of it,” he grumbled, his face tinged pink as he lifted the spoon to Thorin's mouth.

Thorin let his eyes close, a distinct discomfort wriggling in his chest. It had been over a century since he had been fed like this, and to show himself as so weak and helpless... it struck an ugly chord inside him, a missed blow by a hammer on sheet metal. Surely he would feel the same if it were Óin, or Dís, or his nephews helping him, but... to have Bilbo feeding him so carefully, the only sounds the clack of the spoon and the crackle of the fire...

Thorin’s shoulders slumped a little when the bowl was set aside, his fingers uncurling from the tight fists he’d been clutching the blankets with as Bilbo held up the mug to his lips so he could finish the last of the water, his stomach certainly gladder for the food.

“There,” Bilbo said, a note of relief and satisfaction in his voice as he put the mug aside, “Now I shan't have Óin grumbling at me, and you shall feel better for having eaten, I should think.”

“I do,” Thorin agreed, licking his lips and opening his eyes.

Bilbo hummed out a pleased sounding noise and nodded his head, “I have half a mind to insist on a hobbit diet for you, you know, though as I am yet to have that pleasure for myself it's probably not feasible.”

Thorin snorted softly and then sighed as he felt that irresistible pull of sleep lap around the edges of his body and mind.

“... We must be low on supplies, surely...” he mumbled, frowning a little. Erebor would hold no food, and - he realised sickly he had no idea how they were eating, who was providing food, and at what cost. He tried to push himself upright again, worry bubbling up inside him.

“No-- oh for--... _no_. No.” Bilbo said, pushing him firmly back down, “Stop it. Balin and Dori are handling all of that business with that Dáin fellow – handling it very well, I believe – and when you can feed yourself then you can think about trying to get out of bed.”

“You've been spending far too much time around Óin,” Thorin grumbled, but his arms were too weak to even hold himself up for more than a few seconds, and he let Bilbo fuss over him, tucking the blankets back around his frame until he was secured back into the bed. He felt swaddled almost, but the warmth and comfort was enough to soothe his sense of being trapped.

Dáin. Of course, Dáin, how could he have forgotten...?

“Hah! Well. There's probably some truth in that, I've been doing what I can to help,” Bilbo smiled, patting Thorin's arm – once again trapped under blankets – before he moved back into his chair, tugging his cloak up around himself.

“Dáin,” Thorin repeated, a frown still on his lips, “Has he... is he crowned...?”

Bilbo went very still for a moment, dropping his gaze while plucking and fiddling at the cloak. Elvish, Thorin realised belatedly as he shifted, trying to find the strength in his limbs to sit up again.

“Bilbo, is he crowned?”

“No,” Bilbo sighed, lacing his fingers together, his eyes flickering all over Thorin's face, “No, he's not, but he seems to be very much in charge right now – along with Balin and Dori. That whole thing is rather up in the air, from what I've gathered. After all, Fíli is the rightful crown prince, so I've been told, but... I've heard that some are questioning-- ... Well. There's no need to go into that right now, I think. The plan was to have your funeral in a few days, and then a few days after that it would be properly discussed... but, well, you've gone and planted turnips in the potato field by not being dead.”

“Does Dáin know I'm not dead?” Thorin asked, trying to put this information in the right order of importance in his befuddled mind.

“No, not yet. Gandalf says we're not to tell anyone anything for another day or so, at least. No idea why, the whole mountain is in mourning and it's sure to cheer them up – plus secrets like this are not best kept for long, in my opinion, still-- ...” Bilbo trailed off as Thorin yawned so wide his jaw cracked and popped, and his eyelids struggled to stay open.

Bilbo leaned forwards again, squeezing at the shape of his wrist.

“Rest. I'll most likely still be here when you next wake up, and you can do your next bout of worrying then.”

“Do not trouble yourself for my sake,” Thorin murmured, his eyes closing of their own accord, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. His kingdom... Dáin... he would have to... to negotiate, to...

“Hardly. I have my book, an armchair, and this is possibly the warmest room in the whole of Erebor.”

“Your books and your armchair,” Thorin mumbled, his consciousness slipping away, almost in a dream already. He heard Bilbo's little smile in his voice as he drifted off, Bilbo's words soft around and over him.

“Exactly, my books and my armchair.”

 

 

*

 

 

“To think these dwarves have coveted a power like this, so secretly and so fiercely... It is just like them. I sensed there was something about the stone as it sat in Bard's hands, but to think it contained magic such as this...” Thranduil muttered as he shook his head, sipping wine from his goblet and crossing his legs, sitting easily in an elegant chair of elven make inside a sloping tent.

“So secretly and so fiercely not even they themselves, nor any other being on Middle Earth, knew it,” Elrond said dryly, crooking an eyebrow at the heavy look Thranduil shot him. The dark haired elf breathed out a little sigh, sipping his own wine, “Come, now. You cannot believe they knew and kept it that well hidden.”

“I believe it is possible,” Thranduil replied.

“Then you are a fool,” Gandalf interrupted, raising his own eyebrows as Thranduil all but glared him.

The Arkenstone sat between the three of them in a small, open box. It glowed a darker red than any ruby and was shot through with black tendrils. Like veins or smoke they moved around inside in slow, creeping curls.

“If any dwarf knew the power the Arkenstone contained, then the knowledge died with them. I cannot imagine a treasure such as this would be so easily lost,” Gandalf sighed, lighting his pipe and sitting himself down on a chair.

Elrond slowly circled the stone, “We do not yet know if this is a treasure,” he pointed out, stooping down to the Arkenstone so he could look closer, “... It shows no reflections on its surface...”

“That stone was neither easily lost or idly regained. Another curse is all that line needs,” Thranduil grumbled, sipping at his wine again.

Elrond stood up straight again and set his goblet down to clasp his hands behind his back, “And Thorin did not seem concerned when you voiced your intentions to remove the Arkenstone from his person?”

“Not at all,” Gandalf said, a smile on his face as he puffed at his pipe, “He was far more concerned with the health of his nephews.”

“A welcome surprise,” Thranduil muttered, filling his own goblet again, “Come, now,” he said almost mockingly as Elrond turned to look at him, “You know as well as I do his mind was already lost to the dragon-sickness long before he touched a single piece of gold in that mountain. You saw it in him yourself, and so did I, in our own realms. The dwarf that stood on those gates was dragon-like in all but wings and scales.”

“And yet he managed to break free of it himself, by his own strength of character,” Gandalf shot back.

Thranduil scoffed softly.

“What proof is there of that? The words of those so loyal to him they would have thrown their lives away on his folly, would have denied his madness to the bitter end?”

“He charged into battle,” Gandalf said, face darkening a little.

“To defend his gold...!” Thranduil all but hissed.

“To defend his people, and his home!” Gandalf exclaimed, throwing his hands up and pointing his pipe at Thranduil as the blond elf turned his head to look away, “Thorin Oakenshield is changed. I sat with Bilbo myself after the battle, I heard his last words through Bilbo's own lips.”

“Changed indeed, and perhaps changed again,” Elrond cut in, shooting them both sharp looks, “He died. He should still be dead, and none of us can guess what terms this magic comes with.”

“It is necromancy,” Thranduil breathed, “It should not have been done, the consequences are innumerable and unknown. We do not know who created this magic – what portal it might become. Who can tell what may now be using him as an instrument? Who knows what eyes look through his? We must be ever more cautious with him, ever more vigilant, lest...”

A silence fell upon them, Gandalf's face hidden beneath his hat and in his beard. Elrond sighed heavily.

“... If this is the work of the enemy... why bury it in Erebor? Why bury it at all? Dwarves are surprisingly resilient to his powers,” Elrond said evenly.

“But not to dragon-sickness, nor gold,” Thranduil pointed out, eyes fixed on the stone, “And now that he breathes once more, Thorin will be crowned king over Fíli, and strike out Dáin's claim. Who knows what petty, political squabbles that alone will bring – more dwarves from the Iron Hills will arrive, all wishing now to follow in Dáin's steps. Who is to say there will not be another war here over the rule of Erebor, and more lives lost? The news of Thorin Oakenshield's death has spread like fog over Middle Earth. Who is listening for tales of his resurrection? Those armies of orcs did not spring from nowhere – why, you yourself fought the enemy at Dol Guldur!” Thranduil said, wide eyes fixed on Elrond before he looked to Gandalf.

“And you believed Smaug could be an instrument to war. Now a dwarf who had fallen to madness lies in Erebor, brought back by hitherto unknown magic from absolute death in a hole filled with cursed gold! Forgive me if I am not overjoyed at this turn of events,” Thranduil all but barked. He fell silent, slumping back in his chair with his chest rising and falling rapidly. He quickly composed himself again, eyes closing for a long moment.

“There is no use arguing the what-ifs and whyfores of it now it has happened,” Gandalf sighed, standing up and tapping his pipe out into one of the burning lanterns, “I will take it to Saruman. If anyone knows anything about this matter it will be--”

_Wait._

All three paused as a voice passed between them, as strong as a crashing waterfall and as sweet as birdsong.

_I am coming._

Gandalf smiled slowly, a curling at the corners that grew slowly across his face, his eyes crinkling as he moved to sit back down in his chair as Elrond and Thranduil ducked their heads almost in unison.

“I will see to the preparations, and then I will examine Thorin,” Elrond murmured, shutting the lid on the box and sweeping out of the tent, into the city of Dale. Thranduil heaved a sigh and stood, finishing his wine and putting it aside.

“I too have things to prepare, Mithrandir. You will forgive my absence.”

“Of course,” Gandalf nodded, repacking his pipe and leaning back in his chair, looking distinctly pleased with himself.

 

 

*

 

_T.A 2941_

_October 30th_

 

 

 

Fíli woke to the sound of knocking on the door. He groaned, shifting and hissing softly as pain shivered through his middle.

“Come in,” he called out, voice thick with sleep, whilst Kíli grumbled and pulled his blankets up over his head from his bed beside Fíli's in the lavish room. It was the quarters for the king's personal bodyguard – a room that Fíli reckoned would become Dwalin's now that--...

“Irak'adad,” he breathed, sitting up suddenly and gritting out a little noise, one hand touching over his stomach, “Come _in_ ,” he called a little louder as the door was knocked on again.

Uncle was alive.

The door opened, a nervous looking dwarf entering and bowing deep, dressed warmly in dark leathers. Their hair was a deep brown and kept up in tight braids, their beard full and soft but not yet long, and they looked to be perhaps a little younger than Ori, eyes as dark as mahogany flicking between the beds with awe on their face.

 

 

“My apologies for waking you-- ...” they all but squeaked.

“--I'm not awake yet,” Kíli grumbled, head now buried under a pillow.

“O-Only that there is a raven for you, with a letter from the Lady Dís, and I was told to deliver it to you immediately, your highnesses,” they finished, pulling out a scroll from their pocket and going over to Fíli, timidly handing it over. Kíli pushed himself up onto his hands and elbows, looking over his shoulder in interest.

“From amad?” Kíli asked, the young dwarf bowing and moving to leave.

“Wait a moment,” Fíli smiled, holding the letter in his hand, “Your name, I don't believe I know it...?”

“Bera, daughter of Beron,” she said, bowing deeply again.

“Well met, Bera, daughter of Beron,” he laughed, “I would ask another favour of you, if I may.”

“Of course, your highness...! I am at your service,” she nodded enthusiastically, clasping her hands together.

“Would you visit the kitchens, and enquire as to some lunch for us?” Fíli asked, smiling widely at her. Bera flushed, standing ramrod straight and then bowing deeply again – the end of the handle of an axe strapped to her back knocking against the door.

“With pleasure, your highness,” she replied, smiling back before opening the door and scurrying out. Kíli rolled his eyes, flopping back down onto the bed.

“You're going to have another poor dwarrow sighing over you,” Kíli pointed out.

“I can't help being the more handsome of us, nor the more charm-- ow! You troll!” Fíli yelped as Kíli threw a comb at him, bouncing it off his head. He swallowed hard, one hand going to his stomach again where pain was throbbing, low and deep in his gut. It was fine. Of course it was hurting, he had been impaled - it would hurt for a long time as it healed.

“I'm trying to open amad's letter,” he grumbled, chucking the comb back, “Besides... seeing as we can't be sneaking into the kitchen and now that Bilbo's going to be pre-occupied with irak'adad, it makes sense to befriend someone who will steal us honey cakes and biscuits,” he grinned, finally getting the letter open and spreading it out.

“You have a point there,” Kíli grinned, settling more comfortably in bed, “Well, read it...!”

“My dearest Fíli and Kíli,” Fíli read, pausing for a second as he swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat. It had been a long time since he'd seen her writing, and for a vicious second he missed her more than anything in the world.

“... My dearest Fíli and Kíli,” he started again, “to know that you are both alive and recovering is the most precious news a mother could receive. To know that I came within a hair's breadth of losing the both of you steals the very air from my lungs and the heat from my forge. You are my sun and my stars, my--...” Fíli's voice cracked.

“ _Mahal_ ,” Kíli grumbled, once again face down in his pillow, his voice thick and muffled.

“... My mountains and rivers. My very soul. If I had lost you, I cannot imagine my grief, as it is already strong enough to crumble granite thanks to our distance, and the news of Thorin's passing. Your uncle was prouder of the both of you--...” Fíli paused to rub his sleeve over his stinging eyes, “Than... than any other thing in his long life. You must know that he loved you dearer than anything else.” Kíli was silent, his breathing hitching slightly.

“As do I. There has never been a mother more--... more proud--... or more--... Mahal,” Fíli breathed out, dropping the letter and pressing his arm over his eyes as he sucked in a few wet, shaky breaths. He missed her. He missed her more than anything, and in the pain of it he could see flashes of Thorin, Dwalin, and Bilbo below him on the snowy ground, Azog's grip on him, the first push of the blade into--...

“Here, give it...” Kíli mumbled, reaching over with his own eyes watery, his jaw set as he took the letter from Fíli's outstretched hand. He cleared his throat.

“... Never been a mother more proud or more filled with love for her children,” he managed to rush out, “You both m--... you both m-made me... a prom--...” Kíli choked out before he shook his head violently and shoved the letter back at Fíli, who only just managed to catch it from falling. Kíli dragged the blankets up to bury his face in them, shoulders trembling. Fíli took a deep breath.

“You both made me a promise to come home safe, and... and you have kept it. Thank you,” he whispered, feeling the tears sting his eyes, “But I am the one coming--... I am the one coming home to you...! Kee, she's--... I am travelling with the first envoy from the Blue Mountains. We will take the pass through the Misty Mountains. I will miss Thorin's funeral. You--... You will find in my old room a box in the bottom drawer underneath the bed. Inside are some letters you are not to read, they are private and I shall know if you do,” Fíli said, a little grin twitching his lips as his brother snorted wetly, “And a necklace. It is the first gift he ever forged for me, and if this letter reaches you in time, I would ask that it is placed in the tomb along with him.”

“She's going to get a surprise when she hears he's not dead,” Kíli muttered, wiping his eyes and looking up at Fíli.

“Not like we had,” Fíli said, crooking a little grin as his brother breathed out a laugh, “I pray I will be home in time for your coronation, Fíli. If you can, stay it until your amad is there to see it happen. And under no circumstances sign or agree to anything – she underlined that bit a lot – until I get there. Let Balin advise you. With all the love in my heart to you Fíli, and to you Kíli, amad. Do not cause too much trouble until I am there to scold you for it.”

[ ](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com)

“Good advice, there,” Kíli murmured with a weak grin, wiping at his eyes still, “She's coming... how long will it take, do you think?”

“A while, surely... it took us over a year,” Fíli pointed out, “though we went quite a roundabout way, and they'll be following the proper routes. A few weeks, if they travel light and fast.”

“I wish she was here now,” Kíli sighed, slumping back down onto his bed, “... I'm going to recite her bits of that letter the next time she's cross,” he grinned.

Fíli laughed, breathing out a noise as another sharp, hot stab of pain went through him. His fingers shook as he touched over his stomach, trying to quiet the niggling worry in his mind. He had the best healers in all of Middle Earth at his fingertips, he was fine.

“I wish she was here now too, naddith,” he nodded, folding the letter up as someone knocked on the door, “Come in...! Ah, Miss Bera,” Fíli smiled as she peered around the door, bringing in a tray with two bowls of steaming stew and tankards of water.

“Your highnesses,” she said, bowing and almost tipping the tray, quickly handing them each a bowl, a spoon, and a cup of the water.

“Thank you,” Kíli smiled warmly, taking the bowl and spoon from her and placing the water on the nightstand beside him.

“Yes, thank you,” Fíli said with an equal smile. He sighed softly, looking down into the stew. Bera hesitated and rubbed nervously at her slightly turned-up nose.

“... Is everything alright, your highness...?”

“Oh, yes. Of course, it's just--... no, it's ridiculous.”

“Utterly ridiculous, ignore my brother, please,” Kíli said seriously, nodding his head. Bera looked between them and then shook her own head, braids flying.

“No, no, please, if I can do anything for either of you... I would be honoured to know,” Fíli and Kíli looked at each other for a long while before the blond sighed again.

“It's just that... we're being kept on a very strict diet of soups and stews – and as lovely as they are, we find ourselves craving other foods,” he said with another little sigh.

“Biscuits, and the sorts. Honeycomb, or honey cakes, if there were any,” Kíli added wistfully.

“Oh,” Bera breathed, twisting her fingers together. She picked up the tray, biting at her lip, “And you--... you are not allowed...?”

“Well, it's not that we're not allowed,” Kíli said, eyes wide and innocent, “We're just not in a position to acquire them, what with the...” he gestured to the bandages around his middle, Fíli humming out a sympathetic noise and putting his hand over his own.

“Oh,” she murmured again, nervously looking at the white linens wrapped around them. Her expression flickered with determination. Bera tugged at one of the little braids in her beard, “Well, I--... I will do my best to find some biscuits, or honeycomb, or honey cakes for you, your highnesses, if I can.”

“We would be forever grateful,” Fíli said with a wide smile, Kíli beaming at her as she flushed and ducked her head, stepping towards the door, “Oh, and Miss Bera... if you manage to return with them undetected, we would be more than happy to share them,” he smiled.

Bera flushed redder and nodded her head, all but dashing out the room.

“You can share yours,” Kíli scoffed when the door closed. “I'm eating mine all myself. And besides... you know we're going to have to stop this sort of thing, soon. We're _real_ princes now. You were almost king...!”

“Sombre words from someone like you! If I were king I wouldn't need to beg for honey cakes,” Fíli grumbled, starting to eat his stew. He paused, “Though... I have no words for how relieved I am to _not_ be king.”

“You'd have been a good king,” Kíli said seriously, their eyes meeting across the small space between their beds.

“I'd have had you by my side to help me,” Fíli smiled back, noting the pleased look that flickered in Kíli's eyes, his little brother hiding his grin in his stew, “Besides, I'm not offering her my hand in marriage,” he snorted, “Just because we're to be real princes, in your words, it doesn't mean we can't make friends or be nice.”

“Especially if you get brought honey cakes in bed,” Kíli grinned, laughing a little as Fíli rolled his eyes before smirking ruefully at him and winking.

“It's not exactly a hardship, and we've earned a little luxury now.”

“I'll drink to that,” Kíli grinned, lifting his bowl of stew as Fíli did the same with a laugh, a hand idly on his aching belly.

 

 

*

 

 

 

“Thorin...? He should wake up, he's slept a good six or so hours now, I imagine he'll--... ah! Thorin?”

Thorin grunted, grudgingly blinking as a gentle hand at his shoulder and Bilbo's voice brought him slowly back up out of his sleep, his head turning to look blearily at the hobbit.

“What...?” he grumbled, voice a low growl. He still felt exhausted and weak, and if he were honest he'd much rather be asleep than awake.

“You have a visitor. Lord Elrond,” Bilbo said, raising an eyebrow at him almost in warning before leaning in to fuss as Thorin tried to push himself up. Bilbo rearranged the pillows so Thorin was half propped up, standing back and clasping his hands behind him. Thorin nodded his head a little at the tall, dark haired elf standing by what was – to him – a low door.

“Hail Thorin Oakenshield, king under the mountain,” Elrond said solemnly as he lifted a hand to his chest and bowed. Elrond. From Rivendell. He remembered him well. The skilled healer who... had saved the life of his nephews, and attempted to do the same for him. Thorin swallowed, inclining his head towards him again.

“Hail Lord Elrond of Rivendell,” he murmured, voice scratchy. Bilbo handed over a fresh mug of water, Thorin finding the strength – just – in his arms to take it himself this time and lift it to his lips, gulping it down in case his strength waned and he dropped the mug onto the covers. Elrond stepped into the room, his face stern – as it always seemed to be. Thorin let Bilbo take the mug from him.

“I owe you my thanks,” Thorin said, keeping his eyes on Elrond as the elf pulled up a stone stool beside the bed and sat down on it – his knees brought up high thanks to the size of it, “You have tended to my people and I hear you are responsible for saving the lives of my nephews.”

He paused, the prickly feeling of Bilbo's eyes on him from the other side of his bed heavy enough to make a scowl tug at his lips for a second. He sighed, inhaling deeply.

“I do not have words for the depth of my gratitude.”

Elrond said nothing, his eyebrow quirking upwards.

“... I will make sure suitable payment is found, for your services,” Thorin said, lifting his chin as an odd rush flooded him – a slurry of old thoughts, old hates bubbling in his gut. He squashed them firmly. Fíli and Kíli were alive, and Elrond deserved payment.

“A kingly thanks and offer indeed,” Elrond nodded, “Your words are more comforting than any payment. I came here with my healers on the request of Gandalf, and the wishes of others concerned with Middle Earth.”

Thorin tried not to narrow his eyes. A pretty way to not lay down terms of payment, but with room to turn and demand something. It was decidedly... elvish. Still. This elf had saved his nephews, and if he was to pay any elf it would be this one.

“I am sorry I cannot offer you the same hospitality offered to us in Rivendell,” he added, “I hope you and your healers are being well treated.” He looked over sharply as Bilbo made a wheezing noise. Thorin's brow furrowed as he watched Bilbo sit down heavily on the chair, an almost disbelieving smile on his face.

“What?” he growled, feeling his cheeks heat.

“No, gosh! No, don't mind me,” Bilbo said, lifting his hands, “It's just--... well. It's nice to see... this. You putting your pick where the diamonds are, and all that, yes. Yes. Sorry, do...” he waved his hands.

Thorin frowned deeper, a little stab of hurt lodging in his chest for a second. Bilbo had not trusted his word. But then, why should he have had...? Thorin had lost himself to the madness – he had almost thrown Bilbo off the gates of Erebor, almost killed him with his own two hands, he had sent him into exile, ranted and cursed and raved about the _burglar_ , the _thief_ , the _liar_ \--...

“Thorin...?”

He jerked, sucking in a shaking breath through his teeth as Bilbo's voice shattered the storm in his mind, and he realised his brow was damp with sweat. Both Bilbo and Elrond were watching him closely – Bilbo's expression having lost its mirth.

“I'm fine,” Thorin muttered, and his tone sounded hollow in his own ears. He forced his gaze back to Elrond, “My nephew's lives are worth more than any gem or coin here. Name your price.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo breathed, standing up again, but Elrond held up a hand as his eyes stared straight back into Thorin's.

“And if I demanded half the gold in Erebor?” Elrond asked. Thorin gritted his teeth together so hard they ached, his fingers curling into fists. He shouldn't have expected anything else, shouldn't have expected anything less than those demands from an elf, always out to rob and humiliate and take what was rightfully--!

Thorin jerked, his breathing ragged and his heart pounding. No. No, he had-- ... he had beaten the madness. He had driven it out, he had-- ... his gaze flicked to Bilbo's face, his chest tightening at the blank, weary expression there. He exhaled sharply, turning his head back to look at Elrond, sweat trickling down from his forehead and catching in his long hair as he swallowed hard.

“Then you are welcome to it,” he breathed, “If that-- ... if it is what you wish. You are welcome to half the gold in Erebor.” The silence in the room stretched out, and it felt like none of them drew breath for a long moment.

Elrond smiled and moved to stand, Bilbo sinking slowly back into his seat, his mouth a little slack and open.

“A ridiculous demand met with gracious words. I have no desire for a single piece of gold in payment, and if anything is asked for it will be done so through the proper ways when you are crowned king,” Elrond said smoothly, sliding off his outer robe to reveal clothing with much shorter and tighter sleeves underneath – clearly more suited to those of a healer. Thorin looked at him warily, deciding to ignore the lack of payment terms.

“I am healed, am I not...?” he grumbled, voice a little darker with suspicion.

“That remains to be seen.” Elrond said, though he didn't move further towards Thorin. Thorin glared up at him and then turned his head to level the glare at Bilbo.

“I do not need to be _seen_ , I--”

“--Thorin,” Bilbo said tersely, crossing his arms before pointing to Elrond and raising his eyebrows, “Firstly, I am not the one who brought him in here, and secondly... best healer in Middle Earth? To whom you also just said you would give half the gold in Erebor to if he asked? But you won't let him _examine_ you?”

Thorin scowled deeper, that aching discomfort clawing at him. He felt heavy and muddled, and shaken. His mind felt weak and vulnerable, and the last thing he wanted was an elf prodding at him. He felt out of control somehow, and trapped, and like there was a shout bubbling in the base of his throat.

The door opened, Óin bustling in and freezing, blinking at the three of them.

“I see you've gotten started without me,” he grumbled, putting down his pack and the pitcher of steaming water he was holding on the low table by the fireplace, “He is _my_ patient, you know, I don't want anyone fiddling – healer or not.”

“I assure you, Master Óin,” Elrond said, holding up his hands, “I am yet to touch him. I would be most glad for your expertise when it comes to dwarven physiology.”

“Aye, stay your pretty tongue, I know full well you'd be having a good look prior to asking me if I hadn't walked in,” Óin scowled, bringing the things over to the bed, shooing Bilbo to stand at the end of it.

“Now,” he said, “Time for me to see what we're dealing with here.”

Thorin had never felt more fondly for the old dwarf until said old dwarf whisked his layers of covers back and Thorin realised he was in nothing but a thin undershirt and smallclothes that ended far above the knee. He was shivering in seconds, muscles twitching and jumping as he tried to move, the rumble of a growl in his throat.

“It seems someone has already had a good look at me, unless you buried me in these,” Thorin gritted out.

“Aye, we did, with several layers on top,” Óin said, reaching forwards to unlace the ties across Thorin's chest, drawing his shirt back, “And when you woke up you were as cold as ice, so we packed you with hot-water skins and warmed rocks.”

Thorin swallowed, looking down at himself.

A wound ran down the middle of him, sickly reminding him of animals gutted after the slaughter. Bilbo sucked in a shaky breath and didn't meet Thorin's eyes.

“Goes all the way through to the back,” Óin muttered. The wound was stitched up with fine thread, neat and criss-crossed over the edges, “Good thing we didn't put any stones in you to keep your shape, or we'd be down a mineshaft without a lamp alright!”

“Is there pain?” Elrond asked, reaching forwards to gently press his fingers to the side of the wound, “Azog's blade did more than just damage your flesh, and I did not seek to repair your organs.”

“No pain,” Thorin murmured, “... It feels already like an old scar.”

“And your foot?” Óin asked, Thorin looking down – Azog's blade striking up through the ice like a viper, through boot and sock and flesh and bone and-- ...

“No pain,” he repeated, closing his eyes. He opened them again a second later, glaring suspiciously as Elrond's fingers wrapped around his wrist and pressed to the inside of his elbow, curling his arm until his fingers brushed his shoulder.

“Is there pain...?” Elrond asked.

“No,” Thorin said through gritted teeth. It ached, like the aftermath of a terrible cramp, enough to make his fingers shake.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said in warning, his hands clasped behind his back and his cheeks a little pink, a frown on his lips. Thorin scowled at him before he relented.

“... It aches. A stiffness.”

“And now?” Elrond asked, lifting his arm so it was stretched above him.

Thorin had practically never felt so vulnerable in all his life, Óin prodding at various little cuts and scars, Elrond's hands holding his arm up and leaving his side and belly so exposed – and Mahal, he was so _exposed_ , practically bare and defenceless, just like when Azog was over him and his blade pressing down down down down, and he couldn't even move to defend himself, couldn't move as his terrible weight forced down harder and he realised with a sick twist what he had to do, how he had to slide his sword out and let the full weight of Azog's blade impale him, knew in that moment he was going to die and-- ...

“Thorin,” Óin said firmly, Thorin choking out a breath as he was wrenched back into the present, Elrond's hands no longer touching him. The old dwarf was silent for a second as Thorin's chest heaved, his body trembling and glistening with sweat, “Ajbâlazgh?”

Thorin ignored the way both Elrond and Bilbo tried not to look interested, doing his best to catch his breath and calm his racing heart. Elrond, he reminded himself, read ancient Khuzdul better than himself, and if anyone was privy to hear a few words... it was Bilbo. Thorin nodded his head.

“Zarin...?” Óin asked with a frown.

“Lo zarin. I'm fine,” Thorin replied, a tremor in his voice, “There is stiffness, and an ache in the muscle,” he said to Elrond. The elf nodded, helping Thorin bring his arm back down to his side.

“Understandable. Your body has laid unmoving and unused for over a week. It will take time for your strength to return. I will consult with Óin for some suitable exercises,” he said, “Now as for these stitches...” he leaned in, running his fingers over the scar – Thorin's breath catching at the strange, sparking tingle of what had to be magic in their wake.

“Yes. They shall have to come out, I'm afraid, or I fear they will fester. The thread is not designed for a living body.”

“Now...?” Thorin asked, trepidation in his voice.

“Now would be best,” Elrond said, taking the pitcher of water from Óin as well as the offered soap and washing his hands in a small basin by the bedside. He drew out several things from inside his pockets – a pair of long, gleaming scissors and some fine tweezers, and he carefully washed them both. He returned to the bed, laying them out on a small, neat towel beside Thorin.

Óin handed over a bottle from his pack Thorin knew all too well. Some vile concoction of Óin's, seemingly made from vinegar, salt, and the strongest, purest liquor he could brew – and if it didn't work so well at keeping wounds from infection Thorin would have smashed every bottle. As it was all he could do was look to Bilbo.

“I'd appreciate it if you would fetch me something from the kitchens, and something to drink.”

“Right,” Bilbo said, gaze flicking over the scissors and tweezers. He nodded sharply and took a shaking breath, turning on his heel and hurrying from the room.

“I'm not going to have to hold you down, am I?” Óin asked cautiously as the door closed, and Thorin shook his head.

“I have not the strength,” he grumbled.

“Aye, but you have the will for it, and you're full of surprises,” Óin shot back, Elrond moving to sit on the bed next to him. Thorin tried not to tense up, closing his eyes as he felt the brush of metal warmed from the water against his skin. He was able to lay still and silent while Elrond carefully removed the stitches from his skin, the pain sharp and tugging but nothing he couldn't stand.

“Right,” Óin said darkly. Thorin gritted his jaw as he heard the tell-tale pop of the cork and the slosh of liquid before pain like dragon fire burned across him.

He bucked and snarled, strong hands suddenly pressed to his shoulders to keep him down as his fists slammed into the mattress. His whole body throbbed with agony, shaking as Óin hurriedly pressed the cloth to his wounds – each of the seemingly hundreds of little holes from the needle and thread burning like he had had white hot metal dripped on him. By the time Óin was slathering some of his infamous oin-ment onto his wound the pain had dulled to a low ache, and he was left breathless and slick with sweat on the sheets.

“Rum me saslabi abdâkhmêzu aya mefsu,” Thorin growled at Óin, pulling in ragged breaths through his teeth.

“Aye, and because it works I'd be glad!” Óin laughed, drying his hands off and carefully covering the long wound with strips of clean, white material, securing the edges with streaks of sticky sap lifted from a pot with a flattened stick. Thorin kept silent even though he knew well from experience that peeling the bandages off now would be another pain to bear.

“There are more on your back, I'm afraid, and then your foot” Elrond said evenly, Óin moving to help Thorin roll onto his stomach.

Thorin grunted out a low noise, burying his face in his arms and closing his eyes. The plucking and stinging sensation started up again as Elrond took out the stitches on his back. He groaned sharply as another load of Óin's foul medicine sloshed over the wound, his fingers fisting in the pillows as he gritted his teeth and rode the agony out. He kept silent as they took out the stitches in his foot, his leg jerking out as that terrible pain crashed through him for a third time.

By the time Óin and Elrond were helping him to lay on his back again after all his wounds had been treated and bandaged he felt utterly drained, his body damp with sweat and limbs trembling.

“All done,” Óin said comfortingly. Thorin nodded, swallowing harshly as Elrond washed his hands again, handing Óin the warm water. The dwarf taking it and wetted a cloth, starting to wipe the sweat from him - much to Thorin's relief, “Don't worry. I could hear the shrieking of the elves from Erebor itself when it was used on them.” Thorin snorted before he could help himself, his lips twitching into a little smirk for a second.

“It's a very potent mixture,” the elven healer said, a touch of amusement in his voice as he slid on his outer robe, “And I am honoured to have been given the recipe.”

The door opened, Bilbo coming in with a tray quite laden with food.

“You're just in time,” Elrond smiled, “I will leave you now, but I would like to speak with you again, when you are feeling better.” Thorin inclined his head in agreement, letting Óin help him back into his undershirt and prop him up on the bed and pull the blankets back up over him so the tray could be placed in his lap.

“Here,” Bilbo said, handing over a tankard, “Drink this first, it's some of the elixir made by Lord Elrond – and it's very good for regaining strength...!” he finished firmly, all but pushing it into Thorin's hands.

Thorin scowled, shooting a glance to Elrond who simply bowed his head and left, closing the door behind him. He looked back to Bilbo, the hobbit standing there with both hands on his hips, the laden tray down on the table.

“You're not getting anything else until it's gone.”

“And you think you can stop me?” Thorin grumbled, eyeing the delicious looking stew, the little buttered bread rolls, and a bowl of honeycomb cubes.

“Right now? Yes. Thorin,” he added, a little softer, “It will help you. Please.” Thorin heaved out a long suffering sigh and lifted the tankard to his lips, though his arms felt heavy enough to fall from his shoulders. Óin repacked his bag and nodded his head, leaving with a promise to return once Thorin had slept again.

The draught was the same as the first one, crisp and smooth all at once, and though he was loathe to admit it even to himself, he could feel heat and strength flowing back into his muscles, some of the crushing exhaustion lifting from his bones. He finished it in silence, putting the empty tankard aside on the table. Bilbo looked entirely too pleased as he lifted the tray up and onto Thorin's lap.

“Thank you,” Thorin sighed. His fingers were slow and clumsy, but he had strength enough now to hold the spoon and bring it to his mouth. The stew was rich, hot and thick on his tongue and laden with meat and vegetable enough that Thorin's stomach growled loudly just from anticipation. Bilbo breathed out a little laugh, sitting down on the side of the bed.

“It's quite alright. I should thank you for giving me an excuse not to watch any more surgeries,” he said, and though his tone was light hearted his smile didn't reach his eyes.

“I imagine you have seen far too many,” Thorin muttered around another bite of stew, “War and its aftermath is no place for a hobbit.”

“Quite so,” Bilbo said, crossing his arms, “but here's a hobbit who has been through a war and many battles now, and who has helped – I like to think – in the aftermath of it all; and even has a scar or two of his own to show for it all! Though who would believe me, I wonder.”

Ice shot through his heart, the spoon in his fingers clattering back into the bowl as he started forwards enough he almost upset the whole tray, Bilbo jumping and his eyes widening.

“You-- ...” Thorin swallowed hard, his heart pounding his chest, “You were hurt.” Bilbo had been wounded and he hadn't noticed, hadn't thought to enquire. He felt crushed again, like his chest had collapsed in on itself as rage swelled up in him - rage at himself, rage at Gandalf who had brought him, at Azog and every foul orc to walk the earth.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, moving to push aside and up the sweep of his fringe to show a pink scar above and to the side of his right eyebrow, around an inch long, “Right here. An orc gave me a nice clonk on the head with the end bit of his dagger, and I went down as quick as you like. When I came to I rushed off to where I had last seen you and Kíli heading, and then I... found you,” Bilbo sighed, dropping his fringe back down and smiling – though it was tight and cold.

“Not quite as impressive as some wounds, but more than enough for me.”

“You shouldn't have any wounds,” Thorin murmured, all his appetite gone as he dropped his gaze back to the tray. Every limb felt too heavy to move, his chest tight.

“True,” Bilbo agreed, Thorin lifting his gaze when he felt Bilbo's hand slowly cover his own and squeeze, “But I did read my contract before I signed it,” he said, a small smile on his lips and warmth in his eyes, “And I shall have a story or two to tell for all my hardship, and I tell very good stories, as you know.”

Thorin's throat felt like it was burning as he nodded sharply, “You do,” was all he could croak out as Bilbo took his hand back, folding them in his lap as he got more comfortable on the side of the bed.

“I do! And as you eat, I will tell you one right now,” Bilbo smiled, clearing his throat and plucking a bit of the honeycomb up from the tray, munching on it thoughtfully.

“... I'll tell you the story of my uncle Longo and the pig, that's sure to cheer you up a little. It was a beautiful summer morning and the day of my grandmother Lily's birthday. I was a young lad at the time, just seventeen to her impressive ninety-two, and of course I had been roped into helping set up the tables for her feast, to which I had been invited.”

Thorin picked up his spoon again, leaning back against the pillows as he started to eat again, the idea of ninety-two being impressive bringing a small smile to his lips already.

“The larks and bluebirds were singing in the hedgerows and the field was full of flowers and bees and butterflies, and the smell of food was rich in the air. Myself and three other lads had all been promised a hearty elevenses for our help, so as you can imagine we were all very much pleased by this idea as grandmother Lily had hired Violet Brandybuck for the catering, and she was one of the finest cooks in all the Shire – and beyond!” Bilbo paused, a glazed look in his eyes before he took another bite of honeycomb.

“So,” he continued, “we brought all these chests full of grandmother Lily's best linen out into the field, as well as all the plates and some beautiful silver cutlery sets, and we were to make a ring of tables so a small fire could be lit in the middle with lanterns around the outside – and we were to erect a little fence to the side for dancing. Just above the field for the party sat my uncle Longo's smial, and he had contributed one of his biggest, fattest pigs to be roast, but he had spent too long at the Green Dragon the night before and hadn't woken early to slaughter it, as he had planned.”

Thorin couldn't help but listen, Bilbo's face and hands as animated as his words as he spoke – gesticulating with the piece of honeycomb in his fingers.

“Imagine the scene, if you will. The most perfect late morning, tables set up in a ring and decorated with beautiful linens and plates and silver cutlery, the sweet birdsong and hum of bees dancing with the smells of pasties and cakes in the air, the green grass a sea of colourful wildflowers, not a single cloud in the blue sky, and four young lads having just finished their work when all of a sudden, from behind us, comes this most awful crashing and screaming and wailing loud enough that all four of us leapt what felt like a foot in the air and cried out as loudly as the noise itself!” Bilbo finished, almost breathless himself.

Thorin had paused in his eating to listen, his spoon hovering with the last mouthful of stew in it.

“We turned, our faces white and our knees knocking, only to see my uncle Longo astride a pig bigger than himself, hanging on for dear life as it ran amok around his smial! Well!” Bilbo laughed loudly, Thorin chuckling as he finished the last mouthful, using his bread to mop up the final drops of gravy, the image painted by Bilbo vivid in his mind.

“Well, we started to laugh and laugh and laugh until we were all laying in the grass from it, but at that moment my cousin Falco – one of the lads with me, and two years my senior – looked up and gave this great shout! We turned to look and there was uncle Longo – still on top of the pig – hurtling towards us! Of course all the calamity had brought nearly everyone out to see what the fuss was, and they had formed a crowd around the field. We sprang to our feet and waved our arms and stamped, trying to turn the pig away from the tables we had set,” Bilbo grinned as he finished his honeycomb, licking his fingers and shaking his head ruefully.

“But that pig hadn't a single drop of fear in him, and he charged right for Falco, who vaulted the table to try and escape the creature – who simply seemed not to see any obstacle and smashed through it, bam! There was a great crash of silver and linen and a great scream, and as the tablecloth fell from the pig we saw that Falco had joined Longo up on the creature's back, both clinging to it and each other and wailing! We didn't know whether to laugh or cry as it charged table after table until none was left standing, and in a final effort myself and my cousin Drogo flung ourselves at the pig as it ran between us, and our weight finally brought it down to the ground! Though my clothes were ruined with mud and grass, much to my mother's dismay.”

Thorin was huffing out soft laughs around his mouthfuls, seeing clearly in his mind's eye how Bilbo's nose would have twitched and his lips tightened, his eyes widening just as he leaped for the pig and his relatives.

“And then?” Thorin asked softly, a smile on his face as Bilbo took another square of honeycomb.

“Oh, poor uncle Longo had a scolding that lasted almost until the next week! I don't think I've ever seen ears burn so red. The tables and linens and all the lovely things were completely ruined, and we had to lay down rugs and carpets on the ground for a picnic in the end.”

“Did you get your elevenses?”

“Of course! After all, we had finally stopped the pig. Which was delicious, by the way, and all the more so for the merry chase we had been lead on!”

Thorin laughed again, finishing the last chunk of honeycomb before Bilbo could, the tray empty and his belly full.

Bilbo went quiet, the both of them sitting in comfortable silence.

Thorin yawned deeply.

“Here,” Bilbo murmured with a small smile, standing and taking the tray from Thorin, putting it on the little table, “That nasty mixture of Óin's really steals the salt from your shaker, so you had best rest” he said, helping Thorin shift back so he could lay down again, pulling the covers up around him.

“When I next wake I'd like to speak to Balin,” Thorin sighed, “And Dáin.”

“I'll let Balin know,” Bilbo nodded, sitting back in his chair with a short yawn of his own. Thorin could feel his eyes closing of their own accord.

“Thank you. And thank you for your story.”

“Oh, it's just a silly thing,” Bilbo laughed.

“Still, it was most welcome. You brought me cheer, and food...” Thorin yawned again, the black wall of sleep wrapping around him.

“And perhaps the world is a little merrier for it,” Bilbo said, the smile clear in his voice.

 

[ ](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/)

 

 

 

*

 

 

“The Ân Tharkh is still flowing,” Dori said with a sigh, sitting down heavily at the table, “but it'll take a team of dwarves months to undo the damage Smaug did and reopen the gates, and we haven't the numbers yet.”

“I have supplies and more hands waiting in the Iron Hills. Surely we can repair the Mekhem Zirin enough to get them through,” Dáin frowned, taking a gulp of ale from his tankard.

Balin shook his head, looking up from where he was taking notes on a sheet of parchment, “The entire room is practically collapsed and the trapped waters have risen too high for our small numbers to fix it as it is. Both the Mekhem Zirin and the Mekhem Thafar are blocked, just as we suspected.”

Dáin hummed out a low, rough noise as he scratched at his beard, “Well. We're in a sodding bind then, lads, aren't we?”

“Aye, we are,” Balin sighed, “Our fields and farms around the mountain have withered, Dale is a ruin on our doorstep, and Esgaroth has barely enough to feed their own mouths, let alone ours.”

“The men will return,” Dori said, sipping his tea from the big, wooden mug he clasped between his hands, “Men from Esgaroth will move into Dale and work our fields.”

“That will take time, and until then we cannot eat gold or diamonds. What little we have is running low, and winter is coming fast. Dale needs to be repaired before menfolk will live there again. We'll need to create a task force to work on Dale as well as inside Erebor,” Balin said as he wrote.

A small fire crackled in the grate, the three dwarves sitting in the little meeting room in the quarters Dáin had been given. Dáin grunted in agreement, easing his leg up and unbuckling his iron foot from where it was attached just below his knee, rubbing idly at the joint as he thought.

“I'll send a raven and have my son organise supply caravans. They can follow the Ân Tharkh above the ground for now. You'll have more mouths to feed with it, but more willing hands for working, though they won't be pleased about the journey. Izul kuthu ganagsu undu mud sagnigi uru,” he grumbled.

“There will be payment aplenty for them,” Balin added, scribbling furiously as Dori nodded, “And positions within Erebor to fill.”

“Och, don't be advertising that,” Dáin groaned. “Do you know how nice it is to be away from all those politics for just a wee while?”

“I hardly think we can stop the onslaughts of hopefuls,” Dori grumbled, “I hear enough of it around Erebor as it is, and Dwalin has his hands full keeping dwarves away from where the princes are resting.”

“King and prince now though, isn't it,” Dáin said, idly, raising an eyebrow, “Should this wee chat not be happening with Fíli present?”

Balin and Dori paused before Balin smiled, looking up, “I think the lad deserves a wee bit more time to recover before we ask him to lead us on these matters.”

“But you do think he can lead us, don't you?” Dáin pushed, leaning forwards a little.

“Aye,” Balin said firmly, “I do. Fíli is a strong lad – he has all the best qualities of Thorin in him. He will be a just and good king.”

“And what of the bad qualities?” Dáin asked, Balin's face darkening. He looked down to his writing, starting to jot down more notes.

“They are yet to reveal themselves if they are there. Now, Thranduil's elves have been providing us with supplies for a predictably steep price, but they won't last us through the winter without help from our kin in the Iron Hills and the Grey Mountains,” Balin said evenly, Dori nodding along as Dáin leaned back silently.

“We can expect caravans arriving slowly from the Blue Mountains too, but they will take months to arrive and bring more dwarrows to feed with them,” Dori added.

“Erebor is rich only in gold at the moment, so we must be able to part with it to keep us fed and warm,” Balin pointed out, writing a few more notes, “Until then... we are relying on your caravans, Dáin, and any from the Grey Mountains,” he said, looking up at the other dwarf.

“Aye, and we will provide. Go on then, off with you, I have letters to write,” he sighed, waving at them as Dori and Balin stood, bowing shortly and turning to leave.

“Oh, and Balin,” Dáin interjected, the two older dwarves pausing as Dáin pointed a quill at the both of them,“I've not got rocks between my ears, you know. Something is up, and I don't want to be going looking for it.”

“I assure you,” Balin said, Dori leaving the room, “All will settle soon.”

“Dûm takt, Balin. Dûm takt,” was all Dáin replied with, starting to write on sheets of parchment. Balin closed the door behind him and sighed.

“Well. That went well,” he whispered, raising his eyebrows at Dori who rolled his eyes.

“Dáin was always a hard rock,” Dori replied softly, the two of them walking swiftly from Dáin's chambers, “Come on, now. All this talk of food has made me hungry – and I have brothers to find.”

“Aye, and more to do after dinner,” Balin sighed, smiling as Dori patted his shoulder.

“Always more to do,” Dori agreed with a nod of his head, the two walking towards the main food hall. A young dwarrow ran up to them, bowing deeply.

“My lords...! I have been sent to tell you that shortly we will have another visitor. The elves are saying someone is coming and I thought you should know,” she all but gasped. Balin and Dori frowned sharply, looking at each other.

“Thank you,” Balin said, patting the dwarrow's shoulder, “We will speak to the elves, fear not. It will be an important figure, not an enemy. Go now and rest,” Balin smiled. The dwarrow nodded, bowing again before rushing off.

“An important figure...?” Dori echoed quietly when they were alone again.

“I hope so,” Balin murmured darkly, “We have enemies enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to extend a special thank you to my wonderful friend who is a linguistics student and who has gotten really excited by Khuzdul. She's incredibly bright and is able to understand the amazing works of the Dwarrow Scholar, and is helping me make sure I'm getting my Khuzdul as right as possible! Please check her [Tumblr](http://love-is-a-two-place-predicate.tumblr.com) out, and you can find me on [Tumblr,](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)too! So come and say hi if you'd like to!
> 
> The art in this chapter was done by the amazing [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com) and the wonderful [Pop](http://www.poplitealqueen.tumblr.com), so please check them out! Thank you both so much!!!!
> 
> A List of Khuzdul used in order of appearance:
> 
> Fakaku Mahal - The Arch of Mahal (basically the milky way)  
> Irak'adad - Uncle  
> Amad - Mother  
> Naddith - Little Brother  
> Ajbâlazgh - War-vision (a flashback to battle, much like a panic attack or a severe trigger)  
> Zarin - Is it serious  
> Lo Zarin - Not serious  
> Rum me saslabi abdâkhmêzu aya mefsu - I hope you use your mixture on yourself  
> Ân Tharkh - River Road  
> Mekhem Zirin - Iron Gate  
> Mekhem Thafar - Grey Gate  
> Izul kuthu ganagsu undu mud sagnigi uru - Only when you cannot go under must you go over  
> Dûm takt - The halls are silent (All ears - Listening intently; fully focused or awaiting an explanation)


	3. Ahfât

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh thank you all so, so much for your support! I'm totally blown away, thank you! I'd also like to give an absolutely massive thanks to my fantastic beta Tex! You can find her work here under texasdreamer01 so please check her stuff out, it's all amazing! You can also find her on [tumblr under the same username](http://texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) \- so if you liked this chapter, please feel free to shoot her a message too! I honestly don't think I could do it without you ;O;!!! Also I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul is at the end of the chapter.
> 
> A massive thanks also to the wonderful [Quel](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/130820968342/yubiwamonogatari-commissioned-a-tiny-valka-a-rad) who drew the gorgeous art in the 6th section of this chapter!

 

_T.A 2941_

_October 31st_

 

_Feathered wings steal away love-riddled notes_

_Intermediary their time devotes_

 

 

“Come in,” Kíli called softly as someone knocked on the door, looking up from the book in his hands. He was sat by the fire in a wide, comfortable armchair, Fíli asleep in his bed behind him; golden hair spread out on the pillow and face pale in the warm light – as it had been since the battle. The door opened and Bera's head appeared around it with a little smile crooking her mouth as Kíli held a finger to his lips and pointed at Fíli, “Come on in, Miss Bera,” he whispered.

Bera had become a close friend to them both, and Kíli couldn't help but feel fondly for how honest she was, and how eager she was to help them – sneaking them biscuits and treats from the kitchens, bringing them news from all over the mountain, as well as books as she found them while helping with the workers. There was nothing, as Fíli had said, slimy in her character. She was clever, and she hadn't been touched by war and death. Bera was a breath of fresh air among the healers and nightmares.

“Thank you, your highness,” she whispered, ducking her head and coming in, closing the door softly behind her, “I brought you some more honeycomb,” she beamed, holding out a little wooden pot with honeycomb cubes in it.

Kíli grinned wide and took it from her, popping one in his mouth. He offered her the pot, rolling the sweet, sticky honey over his tongue with a happy sigh. She hesitated for a second before she took one slowly with a whispered thanks.

“Not at all – after all, you brought them,” Kíli smiled, putting the pot on the little table in front of him along with his book. Bera nodded, chewing and swallowing the cube down. She suddenly patted at her tunic, face lighting up with realisation.

“I have something else, too. An elf approached me, when I was collecting supplies from the Mirkwood elves with my father,” she said earnestly, pulling out a tightly rolled piece of parchment from her pocket. It was tied together with a length of green cord, “She had long red hair, and asked me to give this to you.”

Tauriel. Kíli's breath caught in his throat as he reached out to take the parchment, his cheeks burning a little. He couldn't help but glance over to Fíli, holding his breath for a second. Still asleep. There was no seal, only the tie keeping it tightly rolled up – and he recognised the material as a part of one of the laces holding together her overcoat.

“I-- ... I think she might have been the one who found me on the battlefield,” Kíli said with a bright smile, hesitating before giving in to the burning temptation and undoing the knot to open the parchment so only he could see the contents. His face fell immediately, shoulders slumping a little.

Elvish. It was written in Elvish, and he didn't speak a word – let alone know the letters. But... they were her letters, and his heart gave a little double-beat in his chest to see them. Why would she write to him in Elvish, when no dwarf would be able to read it? Who in Mahal's name did he know who could speak-- ...

“Bilbo,” he whispered. Bilbo could read Elvish – why, he'd had a book in Elvish with him just the other day, and he'd said since he couldn't read Khuzdul and there were great stones blocking off the library and stopping him exploring, Elvish books from Lord Elrond would have to do...! Not to mention... Bilbo, out of all of them, would keep his secret, he was sure. Kíli looked up to Bera.

“Miss Bera, I would ask a favour of you, if you have the time. Ask-- ...” he couldn't send her to search for Bilbo, not when she might find Thorin too, “... Ask Óin, or Balin, for Bilbo to come to me, if he has the time – or, no, I should-- ... I should go somewhere so we're alone...” he murmured, glancing back over to Fíli.

Bera was silent for a moment. Then she nodded, tugging at the curls in her beard, “There's a room, just opposite this one on the left, where Master Óin is storing his medicines. I'll find Bilbo and bring him there, and then I'll return for you, your highness.”

“Miss Bera, you are a diamond in the crystals,” Kíli beamed, the letter clutched in his hands as she grinned back at him and bowed, quickly leaving the room.

Tauriel. Beautiful Tauriel, who had saved his life more times than he could count. Who made him breathless just to think of her, she his very last memories when he had thought he was going to his Maker's Halls. The last few minutes were jumbled in his head, fragmented and broken, but he remembered her arms cradling him to her body, he remembered the sweet smell of her, like freshly cut grass and dark moss, the blood and tears on her face... He didn't know if the brush of her lips against his was real, or a desperate hope conjured in his mind, but the weight of it made him tremble.

Bera had told them the elves and men were being kept out of the mountain as much as possible while the damage was assessed. Smaug had destroyed several key pillars in the Zê'baraj when he had broken through the main entrance way, and had upended the treasure room – gathering all the gold he could find and collect to add to the hoard, destroying and destabilizing more of Erebor in the process – and it had spilled down into what had been the Mannur Bunûn. The wild chase the Company had then lead him on had all but destroyed the forges, and the floor of the Nibgînu Uzbâd was solid gold now, the precious metal thrown up onto the walls from where Smaug had burst forth. Parts of the mountain were unsteady and great efforts would be needed to stabilize the other levels, and the Shulnu Gabil had been collapsed, the waters rising high.

Pipes had been broken, and what very little of the machinery still running or restarted by the Company had to be stopped. Erebor sat silent, cold, and dark. Only certain rooms, she had said, could have fires in them, their ventilation shafts working without help, and more bodies from Smaug's victory were found by the day. It was no place to let anyone other than dwarves into – save Bilbo and Gandalf – and the grief of their fragile and broken home, their long-dead kin was too private to share with onlookers.

But Kíli's heart had ached to see her again. He unrolled her letter from where it had curled back up, tracing his fingers over the words he couldn't read.

Amrâlimê. He had seen the fierce light in her eyes, the burning of all the stars in the sky brought down to two points. _You make me feel alive_. His own words played in his head – and she had turned away from him, but his hand on her arm, her name on his lips had stopped her.

Amrâlimê.

She had understood, and though she had denied it... Kíli pressed the letter to his chest, trying to bite back his grin.

 _Keep it. As a promise_.

The door opened and Kíli jumped, the letter crumpling a little in his fright. “Oh, Miss Bera,” he breathed. “Is Bilbo...?”

“He's waiting for you, your highness,” she smiled. Kíli nodded, moving to stand. Kíli nodded, moving to stand. He had to walk slowly and carefully so as not to jar his wounds, and he paused to glance back at Fíli – still fast asleep in the bed. He'd be right back. Fíli wouldn’t even notice, but...

“Will you stay with him...? In case he wakes...?” Kíli whispered to Bera.

“Of course, your highness,” she nodded, slipping past him and walking over to sit in one of the chairs. He grinned at her in thanks before moving down the corridor and to the left, opening the door of the little storeroom. Bilbo was sitting on a low table in the dim room, his feet swinging and a small candle-lamp beside him.

“Kíli, is everything alright...?” he asked, standing up. “That lovely dwarf found me on my way to the kitchens, said you had something incredibly urgent you had to speak to me about,” he said, his hands fluttering a little around his stomach.

“Yes, no, everything's fine, Bilbo,” he said, pushing the door almost closed behind him. He moved to sit on the low table, patting the space beside him and taking a deep breath. Bilbo sat back down, linking his fingers together in his lap. “You have helped me many times on this journey,” Kíli murmured, the letter tight in his hand and his eyes on Bilbo’s face. “I-- ... we've spoken about things very close to my heart, I've told you many things about my feelings and my wishes – and my fears. And you have been a true pillar to me, especially when we thought Thorin had gone to the Halls.”

“Kíli, you're worrying me even more,” Bilbo all but groaned, “what on earth has happened?”

“You read Elvish, do you not?” Kíli asked, shifting to face Bilbo a little more, his heart starting to pound as Bilbo blinked at him, mouth a little open.

“I-- ... well, yes. Sindarin, mind, that's all, and it's been a long time since I’ve read any properly--”

“--Please,” Kíli interrupted, pushing the parchment into Bilbo's hands. “What does it say?” Bilbo stared at him for a long moment and then uncurled the message – turning it the right way up and starting to read, his mouth moving a little with the words. He paused, lips open, and Kíli felt his heart seize. What if it were a rejection...? He hadn't even thought-- ... “Bilbo,” he whispered, stomach twisting. Bilbo blinked, looking from the note to Kíli and then back again, his cheeks flushing as he cleared his throat.

“My goodness, I-- ... yes, well, alright, but I shan't be able to make it sound as lovely as she's written it, my Sindarin is quite rusty. Kíli,” he said, clearing his throat again, “Kíli, you spoke a word to me on the shore I did not understand in language, but understood in my heart, and there I hear it still. I-- ... I still have your... edhelharn... I still have your rock? And though I thought you truly had passed into the... dúath, goodness, well... that's... well, I suppose it's the darkness, but I wonder if a more true translation isn't--”

“--Bilbo,” Kíli interrupted, breathless and with his hands shaking.

“Yes, of course, my apologies. I still have your rock, and though I thought you had died and left me with naught but a broken promise and a single word, you are alive, and...” Bilbo trailed off, shooting a glance to Kíli before he cleared his throat again. “... And I know it is real.”

Kíli hung his head, his hair falling in a curtain around his face. His heart was beating so hard he thought it might burst.

“I'm sorry these words come to you through the mouth of another, but of all creatures in Middle Earth I know he will keep them secret, and I would not wish for this letter to be intercepted. We are... denied... oh, forbidden, of course, we are forbidden from entering Erebor, and I... I do not believe you are well enough yet to leave it. I will be waiting. And then she's signed it with a T, which I assume is Tauriel, and a word I've never heard before,” Bilbo finished, cheeks pink as he handed the letter back.

“Amrâlimê," Kíli whispered, grinning so wide his face hurt.

“I-- ... yes, how--...” Bilbo blinked, eyes widening. “I didn't know you spoke any Sindarin – what does it mean?”

“It's Khuzdul,” Kíli sighed, pressing the letter to his chest. It was real. She loved him. He wanted to leap to his feet, wanted to whoop and sing and dance and run out the mountain, into her arms, because she _loved_ him.

“I thought only dwarves were meant to know Khuzdul,” Bilbo said warily, clasping his hands together in his lap and frowning. Kíli laughed, grinning sheepishly at him.

“I didn't tell her what it meant – but she wrote that she understood it in her heart, didn't she? Where? Which bit?” he asked, showing Bilbo the letter again. Bilbo leaned in, tracing the phrase with his finger, “And amrâlimê...?” he asked, trying to take in each word and curving letter.

“Here, the last word,” Bilbo said, tapping it. “Kíli, this... this letter...” Kíli bit down on his lip, slowly rolling it up into a little cylinder again and tying it shut with the green cord. His heart was still beating hard as he shifted on the low table, glancing at Bilbo.

“You won't tell anyone, will you...? I have to speak to her, I can't-- ...” he sighed, hanging his head. He felt almost dizzy with the weight of her words. “... I can't let anyone else know. And she can't let any of the elves know either, but she-- ... Bilbo, she saved my life – more times than I can count,” he said, looking up again and gripping Bilbo's shoulder, a desperate need in him for Bilbo to understand. “She sat with me in the dungeons in Mirkwood, she listened to all my stories and laughed and told her own, she slipped me lembas bread between the bars, she-- ... Mahal, she made me feel so alive and content I didn't want to leave the cell,” he whispered. Bilbo was staring at him, eyes a little wide and cheeks red, hands still clasped together in his lap.

“If she had asked me to leave with her, I-- ... well, I wouldn't have, I don't think,” he murmured, biting down on his lip, “but I'd have thought about it until the end of my days – and she saved me again in Lake Town, from the poison – and after Smaug, I begged her to come with me. I spoke that word to her and she knew...!” Kíli breathed, both hands now on Bilbo's upper arms, his words quick and almost desperate.

“Amrâlimê," Bilbo breathed, voice almost inaudible as Kíli nodded.

“She fought with me after Fíli fell, against Bolg, and I... when his blade pierced me... all I could see was her, Bilbo, and she held me, and she wept, and I felt her lips on mine and her tears on my skin and even as I fell into darkness I knew she hadn't let go of me,” Kíli finished, all but tripping over his tongue in his haste and a tremble in his voice. “I love her. Please, Bilbo. You must keep this secret.”

“Oh, I hate secrets! Horrible, bothersome things that always end up getting you into trouble!” Bilbo groaned, burying his head in his hands. “And a secret like this...!”

“I know, please, I carry the weight of it myself,” Kíli said, holding tighter onto Bilbo’s shoulders and shaking them a little, his own head ducking as he tried to pull Bilbo up again, his wound twinging from the action. “Please, Bilbo. All I'm asking is you don't... you just don't tell anyone! That's all! And it's not like anyone will be asking you about it...!”

Bilbo looked up at him, heaving a deep sigh and putting his hands gently on top of Kíli's, squeezing them gently between his own, “Alright, alright. I'll keep your secret – but that's it.”

“And you'll help me write her a letter back in Sindarin, won't you?” he asked eagerly as he beamed at the hobbit. Bilbo scowled at him, pushing Kíli's hands off his shoulders and holding up a finger, waggling it at the young dwarf before he crossed his arms.

“Oh no. Oh no, now you see, I know exactly what you're doing. Before I can blink I'll be sneaking you out in another barrel to see her and when Thorin finds out--!”

“--He won't,” Kíli interrupted, all the mirth and joy drained from him in a second. His hands balled into fists on his knees, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He had avoided even thinking of how Thorin would react ever since she had appeared from the trees like some wild spirit in a flurry of arrows, a match striking sparks into a flame in the depths of dank Mirkwood. In the aftermath of Smaug and then the Battle of the Five Armies, as Bera said it was being called now among the men, elves, and dwarves who stayed still on the foot of Erebor or in Dale, he hadn't the time or the energy to think what others would make of it. He hadn't even known if she felt the same.

Bilbo's hands on his brought him out of his thoughts. He looked up, and the soft smile on Bilbo's face made his shoulders sag a little, a weight lifted from him.

“I think it's terribly romantic,” Bilbo murmured softly, “and I'm very happy for you. I'll help you write your letters – but that's it. I'm not getting any more involved than that.”

“Thank you,” Kíli croaked, hot tears suddenly stinging his eyes and his throat tightening as he swallowed, a wave of lightness washing over him and lifting his very heart. Bilbo patted his hands and stood.

“Yes, well, you can thank me after I've pulled all my hair out trying to write in Sindarin! My word! And if you think I'm writing anything obscene, you can think again!”

“Bilbo, I would never...!” Kíli grinned innocently, wiping at his eyes.

“Hah! I've heard enough around the camp-fire from you to thoroughly disbelieve that!” Bilbo laughed, shaking his head and putting his hands on his hips, “I'll go fetch some parchment and a quill, and you wait here and think of what you want to say.”

Kíli nodded eagerly as he laughed softly. A thought struck him and he reached out, gently gripping Bilbo's arm to stop him from leaving, “I never asked,” he said, “but... how did Tauriel know you spoke Sindarin? I only thought of you by chance, but she knew you would be the one translating it for me.”

Bilbo hesitated before he sighed, clasping his hands behind his back as Kíli let go of his sleeve, “... We sat together outside the medic tent where Lord Elrond was working on saving your life – and Fíli's, too.”

Kíli blinked, his heart leaping, “She was there...?” he asked.

“Yes, she was,” Bilbo sighed, “I had been taken out of the tent where Thorin had been laid out, and some kind elf had wrapped me up in a lovely cloak, so I had taken myself to a quiet corner and...” Bilbo paused, his expression crumpling a little. He shook his head a little and sucked in a sharp breath, “Well. There's no shame in it, is there,” he muttered, “I was weeping, and my head hurt like nothing I had felt before.”

“Oh, Bilbo, I am so sorry,” Kíli said lowly.

“No, no. None of that,” Bilbo said sternly, “Anyway, I was of course also waiting to hear if either of you two had made it when she sat beside me. I remember-- … I remember how striking she was, how unreal she looked. She was covered in dirt and blood with tears falling down her cheeks, and she reached forwards and took my hands, and she spoke to me in Sindarin.”

“What did she say?” Kíli whispered, utterly breathless as he listened.

“She said...” Bilbo sighed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and ducking his chin with his lips tight and his eyes glassy, seeming to almost huddle into himself. Then he sighed and relaxed, clasping his hands behind his back again. “She said 'I'm sorry for what you have lost. I feel the same pain of it'. And I blurted back – probably in the most appalling grammar – 'it's not all lost yet'.”

“She would have smiled,” Kíli whispered, a grin tugging at his own lips.

Bilbo seemed to soften a little, smiling back at him.

“She did. She dried her tears and asked me my name, and let me prattle on and on to her about the whole quest right up until Lord Elrond appeared and pronounced you both alive and stable. And then she-- … well, it makes more sense now, but she stood and stared right right at where you two were being kept for a few moments – like she was made of stone or carved from wood – before she turned on her heel and disappeared among the tents.”

Kíli slumped back a little, a smile on his face.

She had come and waited for news of him. He closed his eyes, listening to the thump of his heart, the rush of air in his lungs, and what sounded like song in the depths of him; as bright and and sharp as twinkling stars, and as soft and sweet as grass between tree roots. When he opened them again Bilbo had disappeared. Kíli slowly traced his fingers over the scroll hidden in the inner pocket over his overcoat. A grin stretched wide on his lips, making his cheeks ache with the force of it. He felt completely rejuvenated from the tips of his toes to the very top of his head.

Tauriel loved him.

  

*

_The desolate depths hide grief unburied_

_Absolution is found twixt friends serried_

 

 

Ori paused, wiping the beads of sweat from his brow as he lifted the little candle-lamp up higher in the gloom and looked around, a frown on his face. He was walking back from the old, abandoned homes where he had been working with Bofur and Dori. The three of them had been trying to match homes to the deceased and the living. Families had to be told, after all, and places with no known remaining kin to move into them were being cleared out to make way for the new, incoming dwarrows. It was hard, miserable work and though he'd been too young to really remember the dragon attack or Erebor, the pain on Bofur's and Dori's faces was all too clear to him, no mirth or joy in their eyes.

Ori shifted the heavy backpack he was wearing, it stuffed full of books from one such owner-less home. Books he was collecting. He would write the names of the deceased dwarrow in them, he'd decided, and put them in the library so anyone could read them and see their name on the pages. It didn’t matter whether they were fictional or historical, or who had written them. It didn’t even matter if they were duplicates of what would already be in the library, what mattered was their owner’s memory.

There it was again, a strange, low noise to his left. Ori froze and gulped, one hand going to his slingshot and the other lifting his lamp a little higher. Maybe someone was lost, or it was just wind whistling through empty, broken pipes. Either way... it was his duty as a warrior and a dwarf of Erebor to check it out. Especially if someone needed his help. He took a deep breath and slowly put his backpack down, heading into the little passage way with stone on either side of him.

This was a residential area and one of the most heavily destroyed by Smaug. The walls were blackened from his flame, and the shattered walls lay strewn over the walkways in the eerie gloom. Dori said that Smaug had been collecting gold from all over Erebor, wherever he could reach it. This particular level had suffered the most for it, Smaug too big to worm his way up to the King’s chambers. But this had been the Zahur Zabbad, and they had been rich in treasure.

He froze as he heard the noise again, to his right this time. Ori sucked in a slow, silent breath and turned the corner, one hand ready to draw his slingshot should he need to. In front of him sat the smashed open ruins of what had been a beautiful home. It looked like an egg that had been crushed open, the walls and ceiling of it caved in and the inside pillaged for its riches - and there on the remains of a stone table sat Dwalin, his head in his hands and a candle-lamp beside him.

Crying, Ori realised belatedly. The noise was Dwalin crying. He had only heard it very briefly once before, when Thorin's body had been brought back to the mountain by Beorn and Dwalin had fallen to his knees with a howl that had shaken Ori's very bones.

Dwalin looked up sharply, a hand going to the handle of one of his axes still strapped to his back, quick as lightning. Ori held up both his own, taking a step back as his heart twisted in his chest. Dwalin's fingers and face were covered in soot and dirt, tear-tracks down his cheeks, his eyes and nose reddened.

“I'm sorry,” Ori said softly, “I didn't mean to intrude. I heard a noise and thought I should investigate it, in... in case someone was lost, or hurt.”

Dwalin didn't respond for a long moment. Then he dropped his hands, bringing the back of one up to wipe over his cheeks, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

“Aye,” he rasped, “Good call. Didn't think anyone would be passing through here.”

“I was going from one of the residential areas to the main library, and this way is quicker,” he murmured clasping his hands in front of him and taking a step closer. Dwalin nodded, resting both his hands on his knees and bowing his head. Ori hesitated, chewing at the inside of his cheek, “Shall I... shall I let you be...?”

Again, Dwalin was silent. Finally he ran his hand over the top and back of his tattooed head, looking around the ruins he was sitting in.

“This was the home I grew up in,” he said, voice gruff as his fingers trailed over the blackened stone of one of the collapsed walls, “Naught now but a shell. I'd hoped-- ...” he bit himself off, fingers curling into a fist. He knocked his knuckles gently against the wall and dropped his hand to his side.

“I'm sorry,” Ori whispered. Anything of precious metal and stone was gone, all things material, wood, or paper burned away, and the stone was broken and dirty. “Dori says our house is gone, too, but I don't remember it... I'm sorry yours been destroyed like this...”

“Aye, well,” Dwalin muttered, gesturing beside him. Ori stepped into the house, over the rubble and stone to sit down beside the other dwarf, twisting his fingers together in his lap as he put his own candle-lamp down and looked around. There really was nothing left, no single thing that he could identify.

“When the treasure is sorted your heirlooms will be found and returned to you,” said Ori, looking up at Dwalin. He knew the older dwarf wasn't concerned with gold and gems especially, but it would surely help to have at least a few of his things returned to him; and whether or not Dwalin ached for his share of the treasure, this was his home. He had spent hours on the road listening to the other telling his stories of Erebor, had heard about the riches and fine goods, the food and ale and song and cheer that made the mountain itself hum and beat and sing. The tiny smile tugging Dwalin’s lips, the way his hands were loose and relaxed by his sides… he had been just as eager and excited to come home as the rest of them.

Dwalin looked down at him, a sad smile on his lips.

“And I would trade every single one for my mother's book of recipes or the bundle of poems my father wrote when courting her.”

Ori swallowed, his heart jerking inside his chest. His cheeks burned, and grief for Dwalin rose up in a wave inside him.

“I-I'm sorry, I didn't think, I-- …” he whispered, his ribs tight. He jumped when Dwalin's hand gently rested against his back. Ori sucked in a sharp breath and pressed his hands over his eyes, “... I came over to try and comfort you, not the other way round,” he mumbled.

Dwalin snorted softly, clapping Ori on his back and moving to stand, taking up his lamp, “Come on,” he murmured, taking a deep breath and looking around again. “I've sat here long enough.”

Ori clambered to his feet too, nodding his head and grabbing his own lamp. He could see now that the rubble had been moved about and turned, and his heart ached to wonder how long Dwalin had been here, searching through the wreckage. He followed Dwalin out into the walkway leading back to the main path, quiet until he picked up his backpack again.

“I'm taking these books to the library,” he said, looking up at Dwalin and crooking a little smile, rubbing at the side of his nose. Even though the other had come away from the wreckage of his old home he didn’t look ready to join the others yet, his eyes still glazed and a slant to his shoulders. He looked older. Wearier. “I'd put them in but it's still blocked and I can't move the stone, and it's hardly the first priority, really, so I just leave them outside it for now.”

“I'll come with you,” Dwalin offered, shrugging his shoulder. “See if I can help.”

Ori flushed, mouth opening a little as he stared at the other. “I--, oh, you... you really don't have to...!”

Dwalin didn't reply, simply gesturing for Ori to lead on. He hesitated another second before he nodded, starting to head back towards the library, Dwalin falling into step beside him.

Somewhere between the Shire and Erebor they'd become friends. Dwalin had saved his life several times – and once or twice Ori had been able to repay the favour. They'd shared watches, and when Dwalin's clothing had been torn ragged Ori had helped him stitch them back up the best he could. Dwalin had walked and ridden alongside him, had asked the odd question about what he was drawing or writing in his journal, and had told him stories from Moria, Erebor, and the Blue Mountains.

He'd been able to turn to Dwalin for advice and help – sword fighting lessons, and how to deal with older brothers – and Dwalin had, in tiny bits and pieces, shared his thoughts and worries with him too.

Ori hadn't expected the friendship to last beyond the circumstances. When Thorin had fallen – both to gold-sickness and then death – Dwalin had taken himself away to be alone in his grief, and he hadn't the heart to follow him. No words or actions could bring back what Dwalin had lost, and who was he to try and help him through his grief? Even now Thorin was somehow alive again... Dwalin carried wounds deeper than any of the flesh, and Ori was no healer.

“See, Smaug brought down all these balconies,” Ori said when they came to the gates of the main library, the Mukbu Gabil, “and all those pillars up there, though Bofur says they were just decorative, so the entrance shouldn't be too destabilised...”

The gates were completely blocked off by the rubble, save for a few gaps at the top. The floor was littered with stone and some of the paths and steps down towards the Nibgînu Uzbâd were destroyed completely, their lamps lighting the hazy gloom inside the mountain.

“I've made an effort to get in this way,” Ori added, leading Dwalin to the side where some of the rubble had been cleared, “but I can't get in any further by myself.”

“You've done a fine job so far,” Dwalin muttered, walking up to the rocks and feeling over them. Then he shrugged off his weapons, putting them aside with his lamp. Ori flushed again, a smile jumping to his mouth as he knelt down and opened his backpack, putting the new books off to the side with the others he'd been collecting, out of harm's way.

“Thank you,” he said softly, going back over to Dwalin after setting his lamp down with the other. He stepped back quickly as Dwalin grunted, heaving a rock almost as big as himself away from the rubble. “Oh-- …! Careful...!” he gasped as the mound seemed to groan from the disturbance. Dwalin simply grunted again, dragging the rock out of the way and putting it aside, his face a little redder from the exertion.

“Sit tight,” he said, clapping Ori's shoulder. “I'll get these out the way. You stand back there and call out if the rest looks like it's going to come down, aye?”

“Alright,” Ori nodded, moving to where Dwalin had gestured to and watching as Dwalin turned back to the rocks, slowly and methodically moving them aside, his muscles straining beneath his tunic and armour.

Maybe, if he was lucky, their friendship could last in Erebor. He was no healer, but he could be a friend.

 

 

*

_A rose coaxed from under lakeside ashes_

_Trem’ring hands (fear) that on it rage splashes_

 

 

"There will be unrest. Riots. Possibly even another war on your very doorstep, and there will be nothing you can do to stop it,” Thranduil murmured as his fingers traced the rim of his glass, gaze flicking up to meet Bard's across the small wooden table at which they sat in one of the less ruined houses in Dale.

Bard sighed heavily, resting his elbows on table and rubbing at his face. A pathetic fire spluttered in the fireplace, the only source of light in the room. Thranduil was no stranger to his quarters in Dale, and while he – of course – welcomed the advice and experience of the elven king, Thranduil came with warnings and whispers more often than encouragement and good news.

It all left him feeling... unsettled. He felt unsettled, trapped in Thranduil's piercing gaze, and his head ached from trying to think clearly and rationally about what had to be done, what could be done, and what couldn't be done.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Thranduil. He trusted him more than almost anyone else trying to give him advice, but he wasn't blind enough to think that the elf had the men's interests at the forefront of his mind, nor was he blind enough to think Thranduil wouldn't dare to try and use him for his own gain.

“If there is such a war, it’ll be a dwarf war. It won't concern us,” he said, taking a gulp of the warmed wine in his tankard, provided by Thranduil himself. The room they were in was small, and the windows had no glass or shutters to keep the cold out. The furniture was old, musty and worn, and Bard had his coat pulled tight around him.

He didn't want to be the leader of the men of the lake – and he certainly was no king, no matter what they said to him – but it was a burden he had to bear until someone more suitable came forth.

One of those burdens was entertaining elves and dwarves and wizards with very, very little to entertain with. Besides, he'd said in a way of explanation when a simple bowl of stew and some bread was offered to Thranduil as a supper, there were men, women, and children out there in the cold who needed food more than them. This was no time for luxuries.

“Esgaroth is destroyed. Dale is in ruins. Without the dwarves and their gold your men will starve. Don't think they won't use your lands, supplies, and men for their own ends.”

Bard snorted, looking up at him and crooking a wry smile.

“So there will be war I cannot stop, and my people will suffer again for it. You don't give me much hope, and that's all we have,” Bard muttered. He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, “What would you advise, then?”

“Caution,” Thranduil said bluntly.

“Caution... You think we don't have caution enough? Thorin brought a dragon down on us,” Bard pointed out, “On his nephews. From what I hear, he didn't seem much concerned either.”

“No, he was not. He has a sickness in him. For all we know that sickness still thrives, still lingers. Perhaps now it is mixed with new terrors,” Thranduil said lowly, tone dark as he put his glass down.

“Perhaps,” Bard shot back before he sighed, “It's better not to speculate on what we don't know. Lord Elrond said-- ...”

“--Lord Elrond has no proof Thorin would have kept his word. After all, he did not keep his word to you.”

Bard fell silent, a frown twisting his lips. It was true. In Laketown Thorin had seemed reckless, desperate, but... not mad. Or maybe he just hadn't been able to see it. A clatter came from upstairs, and then the voice of Sigrid scolding Bain. He smiled, his heart warming. Thranduil's gaze flicked upwards.

“We have to have hope,” Bard sighed, looking back at Thranduil, at the elf sat elegantly in the worn chair, his crown of silver twigs and sprigs of pine on his sleek, shimmering hair – so ethereal and beautiful in a scene of dilapidation, “We have to have hope that Thorin is going to be fair and just.”

“Fair and just? A dwarf? You are a fool,” Thranduil growled, rising to his feet and clasping his hands behind his back. Bard stiffened, a crackle of something electric in the air, the hair on his arms standing up. The elven king started to walk slow circles around the room, his dark green robes fanning out behind him. He turned to Bard, towering over him with his face cast into shadow as if some viper leaping from the shadows.

“Fair and just,” he repeated, “are not what dwarves are. I have walked this earth since the First Age, for six and a half thousand years – I have seen battle and bloodshed beyond any horror you can imagine, and I have seen things of great beauty, but I have yet to see a fair and just _dwarf_ ,” he spat, turning on his heel and walking away.

Bard clenched his shaking hands into fists, his heart pounding in his chest and sweat on his brow. He was frozen to his seat until Thranduil turned back to face him, his hands splaying on the table as he leaned in and down, their faces close.

“Hope does not feed starvation. It does not create swords or defences. It does not bring back those lost,” he murmured. Bard swallowed hard, nodding his head and opening his mouth.

“Hope brings purpose, and meaning. It allows us to suffer and rise stronger,” he all but breathed, a quaver in his voice. Thranduil drew back sharply and shot him a sharp glare, ice cold in the depths of him.

“Hope will not keep your children alive if the dwarves turn to civil war and--!”

Bard jumped to his feet without thinking, chair clattering behind him as he slammed his fist into the table before raising it to point towards Thranduil's face.

“--Don't,” he barked, “bring my children into this.”

“Then I suggest you proceed with caution, King of Dale, because they will be on your front line if Erebor's monarchy crumbles,” Thranduil hissed back. Bard was breathing heavily, chest heaving and hands trembling as he dropped them down onto the table, ducking his head after a long moment of bearing the weight of Thranduil's gaze.

“... I cannot stop a war like that,” he whispered, slowly sitting back down in his chair.

“No, you cannot,” Thranduil sighed, sitting down in his own and crossing his legs, “Thorin's resurrection will soon be announced. Already there are whispers against Fíli as heir. They say he has no experience, that he could also be touched by madness. Adding Thorin Oakenshield back into the fray will be disastrous – no creature in their right mind would want a mad king brought back from death by some necromancy to rule over them,” he said softly, picking up his glass again.

“And your best council is caution?” Bard asked bitterly, running his fingers through his hair. They were too weak to survive another war – they barely had enough to survive the winter!

“You must be willing to back whichever dwarf will come out victorious if you are to survive this. There is no room for whimsy or principle,” Thranduil pointed out.

Bard frowned, looking up at him.

“And which dwarf do you back?”

“Whichever I deem most likely to come out victorious,” Thranduil said smoothly. He took another sip from his glass, “Let us make an alliance. One king to another.”

“I am no king,” Bard muttered, clasping his hands in front of him on the table.

“You are their king, whether you like it or not, and your people look to you for guidance,” Thranduil pointed out as Bard sighed heavily again.

“When I was a lad my father used to say to me... he'd say, 'heavy the head that wears the crown'. He was no king either, but I understand his words more now than ever,” he mumbled, closing his eyes.

Bard started when he felt a hand over his, mouth opening a little. Thranduil's fingers were covering his own.

“Your father sounds like he was a wise man. Heavy the head indeed, but not always the heart. Have hope,” Thranduil said softly. Bard breathed out a little laugh before he could stop himself, raising his eyebrows.

“I thought you didn't like hope.”

“I don't,” Thranduil said brightly. Though it seemed sincere there was a frost upon the smile on his lips as he took his hand back and linked his fingers together in his lap, “But it is all we have. I will leave you now to consult whichever advisers you deem best. Send me word when you are ready to negotiate an alliance between the men of Esgaroth, and the elves of the Greenwood.”

Bard nodded, watching as Thranduil stood. He bowed his head and felt a strange thrill rush through him when Thranduil did the same – as if he really was someone worth bowing to – before the elf seemed to glide out of the room and into the crumbled, darkened streets of Dale. He exhaled slowly, slumping back in his chair and letting out a low groan.

Politics. He was no politician. No king! He was a bargeman. A bargeman who had slain a dragon, he thought wryly to himself, and faced two armies of orcs. But battle did not make a king, death and blood and war did not forge greatness. Bard looked down at his hand, a faint tingle still pricking his skin from where Thranduil's hand had lain over his.

Did he trust Thranduil...? Not entirely. But he was their best shot and surviving whatever was to come, and he would rather have Thranduil a friend than an enemy, as dangerous a friend as he might be.

“Da...?”

Bard jumped, turning in his chair and smiling widely at the worried faces of his three children.

“I thought you were in bed,” he said, standing and going over to them, enveloping them all in a tight hug. His eyes closed as he breathed in their smell, their warmth. His beautiful, brave, strong children.

“We were,” Sigrid murmured, “but-- …”

“The wind sounds like...” Tilda mumbled, trailing off at the end.

“And something's rattling outside,” Bain whispered. Bard nodded, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads and smiling warmly at them all again. His beautiful, brave, strong children who had seen war and death too close, who often woke crying or screaming in the night. He would do anything to take those memories from them.

“I'm coming up right now with you. I'll keep you safe, I promise. No matter what,” he promised, guiding them up the stairs to the bedroom they all shared. Bard looked out the broken window, out to Erebor sitting silent and dark in the settling dusk.

“No matter what,” he repeated softly.

 

 

*

_T.A 2941_

_November 1st_

 

_Truculent boar receives doubtful dole_

_Gaunt-faced, there’s a deep dolor to extol_

 

 

Balin took a deep breath and stood still for a long moment with his eyes tightly shut. He exhaled, opening them again and uncurling his fingers from their fists to knock on the door to Dáin's quarters. Naturally he had been chosen as the one to break the news.

Naturally.

Dáin, the Company had reasoned, had been friends with Balin the longest – and besides, Balin was the group's diplomat! And, Dori had added, clapping him on the back, Balin was incredibly hardy.

It didn't mean he had to be happy about it. Still. He schooled his expression into something more innocent and calm, opening the door as Dáin called for him to enter.

“Dáin,” he said, with a smile, “shamukh. How is Erebor treating you?” Balin closed the door behind him, wandering into his chambers amicably, hands clasped behind his back. Dáin raised an eyebrow from where he was sitting in his chair, his iron foot off and resting beside his chair, his leg up on a low table. He had a portable writing desk around his middle, ink stains on his fingers. A fire crackled in the grate and cast a golden light over the room.

“It's cold and dark, nothing works, the food is terrible, and it stinks of dragon. It's as charming as it ever is,” he grumbled, signing his name at the end of a piece of parchment with a small, sensible quill before he rolled it up and tied it with a length of ribbon, putting it down on a little pile of them.

“Yes, well, it'll all be polished up soon,” Balin chuckled, eyeing all objects within Dáin's immediate reach. They all seemed small and harmless, save his leg. His hammer was by his bed, thankfully not within easy reach.

“Aye. So. What brings you here then, old friend? You look mighty nervous for a casual visit,” Dáin said shrewdly, eyeing Balin up. “Have you come to tell me this big secret floating around? Stinks like a sulphur vent in a sewage tunnel, you know.”

Balin took a breath, smiling widely at him. Dáin was smarter than many gave him credit for – a thousand times more stubborn than Thorin, and as quick to temper as he was to laugh. Balin sincerely doubted he'd be doing the latter.

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

Dáin sat forwards a little. He put the writing desk hooked over over shoulders down on the table, screwed the lid onto his pot of ink, and set his quill down.

“Well?” he finally said, crossing his arms.

“Thorin... is alive,” Balin settled on. Simple, to the point, and clear. Silence stretched between them.

“Thorin's alive,” Dáin repeated, utterly blankly.

“Thorin's alive,” Balin nodded. Dáin heaved a sigh, putting his head into his hands for a minute, thick fingers rubbing at his temples.

“Balin, my old friend, what bet could you possibly have lost to have you flounce into my quarters and flash crystals at me as if they were diamonds? Or do you think me foolish and senile enough to believe a tale like that? Get out before I throw my leg at you!” he finished, growling at Balin as he looked at him, no mirth on his face.

“I am flashing no crystals, Dáin, Thorin is alive and well. He is sitting and awake, waiting to greet you--!” Balin ducked as Dáin's leg smashed into the wall behind him hard enough to chip the stone.

“--My cousin lies dead in his tomb and as cold as ice! You think I didn't go down there myself, battle-weary and bloodied, and lay my brow upon his and weep for his loss?!” Dáin roared, rising up onto his leg – one hand gripping his chair to keep him upright.

“Now, Dáin,” Balin said, raising his hands in a placating manner. Dáin ignored him.

“You think I didn't shake his corpse and beg Mahal to give me back the best damn dwarf I ever had the honour of knowing?!” Dáin staggered, slumping suddenly as if all the weight of Erebor had come crashing down on his shoulders. Balin rushed forwards to grip his arms, keeping him upright, his own chest tight.

“I know,” he murmured, “we all did.”

Dáin looked up at him, his eyes burning like a raging fire despite being now glazed and red-rimmed.

“I named my boy after him in the hope he'd become a tenth of the dwarf Thorin was, even before this quest,” Dáin growled. He brought his face close to Balin's, tone low, “You have greatly disappointed me.”

“Yes, and you would be right, except it is true!” Balin sighed, a weariness settling over his bones, “Come with me, Dáin. I would not play such a terrible joke on you.”

Dáin was silent, staring deep into Balin's eyes before he drew back.

“You'd better get me my leg, then. But be warned! If this is a prank I'll lodge my foot in your skull and put you beside him myself,” he growled.

“Quite so,” Balin nodded, fetching the iron leg and handing it to the other. He watched as Dáin grunted, strapping it back onto himself. He smiled widely at the glower Dáin shot him, holding open the door. After this, he decided, closing the door behind him and leading Dáin down the corridor lit by little burning lamps, he was going to have a long bath. Hot water, a glass of some of the wine Dori had found and brought back to their quarters, wax earplugs, a good book, and a firmly locked door.

  

 

*

_Worlds converge and clash in high-strung conclave_

_Dub’ous hopes arise in hidden enclave_

 

 

“Thank you,” Thorin murmured, accepting the cup of weak ale from Bilbo and taking a sip. He was sitting up in the padded chair Bilbo had been using, dressed in clean clothing and his hair back in a low ponytail. It had been three days now since he'd woken, and while his wounds had been completely healed, his muscles and limbs had been left weary and dulled. Moving was difficult and slow – but he could feel his strength returning to him.

He'd had a bath earlier, assisted by Óin, in hot water and soap lather. It had felt like sinking into sheer, pure bliss, all his aches and pains and – for a fleeting second – worries slipping away as he closed his eyes and let the warmth soak into him. He'd washed his hair, combed it and braided it again, and had changed into clothing he suspected were once his father's, brought by Balin from the intact chambers of the royal family.

There was so much to do. He had made so many mistakes. Each and every member of the company deserved an apology from him, as he had betrayed each and every one of them. The guilt of it lay thick and tight around his ribs, and if he let himself think too hard about all his wrongdoings he couldn't breathe.

Bilbo's gentle hand on his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts. He sighed, downing the rest of the ale and putting the cup aside. Balin was away telling Dáin and, if all went well, would shortly be bringing him to Thorin's room, tucked away from prying eyes.

“Dáin seems like a good fellow,” Bilbo said, patting his shoulder and taking the empty cup over to the little table with a pitcher of water on it before he sat down on the stone seat beside the chair Thorin was in.

“He is. The very finest. Had my line died in the battle, he would have made a fine king,” Thorin nodded, leaning back in his seat. He felt exhausted again, all the way down to the very soles of his feet, a strange dread in the pit of his stomach.

“I've heard he's even more stubborn than you are,” Bilbo said lightly, crooking a little smile as Thorin snorted.

“Mhn. I've heard I'm sandstone next to his granite,” he smiled. Bilbo laughed, tilting his head back a little.

“Well! There's something I'd never have imagined.”

“You two would be well matched,” Thorin added, his smile stretching wider as Bilbo's mouth dropped open, cheeks reddening. The hobbit frowned, crossing his arms.

“Are you calling _me_ stubborn?”

“Your tempers would be matched too,” Thorin smirked. He huffed out a little laugh as Bilbo waggled his finger at him.

“Now, look! That is bordering on rude...! Really!”

“It was a compliment.”

Bilbo blinked at him. Then he laughed, shaking his head and dropping his hands to his knees.

“You dwarves and your compliments...! I'm beginning to think you've mixed the meaning up with insult. Big nose, stubborn, a hot temper...! Compliments, hah!” he snorted.

“The very finest,” Thorin chuckled, pausing when he head the tell-tale clack of iron against stone approaching. His stomach twisted. Bilbo paused too, clearing his throat and composing himself.

The door opened and Dáin stood there, one hand on the stone and the other by his side. His beard and hair burned blood-coloured in the warm light, himself thick-bodied and full figured, his tunic and leathers dark reds and brown.

“Shamukh, Dáin,” Thorin said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair, “had I believed it sensible I'd have told you in my own words th--”

Dáin let out a roar so loud the room seemed to shake and from the corner of his eye Thorin could see Bilbo leap to his feet with a cry of fright. He didn't even have time to close his mouth before Dáin was crashing into him hard enough to shatter the chair beneath their combined weight, the two of them tumbling to the floor, the wind knocked out of Thorin.

“I should kill you myself for all the heartache you've caused me!” Dáin bellowed, Thorin spluttering through a face-full of bright red, wiry hair, “And if I wasn't so damned happy to see you I'd do it!”

Thorin barely had a moment to close his eyes and brace himself for the crash of Dáin's forehead against his own, his brain feeling like it was rattling inside his skull as his eyes watered and bursts of flash-flame exploded behind his closed his lids.

It took him a breathless second to realise the laughter in the room was coming from himself even as he groaned, trying to shove Dáin off him

“And you will if you don't let me up,” he managed to wheeze out, accepting Dáin's helping hands as his cousin clambered off him and stood. Thorin groaned as he was pulled back onto his feet and rubbed at his aching head, the chair in pieces around them.

“I have never been so glad to see you, Thorin,” Dáin rumbled, wrapping his arms tight around Thorin, a tremble in his voice. Thorin swallowed hard, letting his own arms squeeze tight around the other, “but how in Mahal's name are you alive?!” Dáin drew back, keeping his hands tight on Thorin's upper arms after wiping at his eyes, as if afraid to let go again.

“Gandalf believes it was some power in the Arkenstone,” Thorin murmured, his elation fading as weariness crashed back into him. Dáin's fingers tightened on him.

“Raklaban? Azrâd?” he muttered darkly. Thorin nodded, his stomach dropping as Dáin shivered, opening his mouth again. But he stopped suddenly, and Thorin turned his head to see what Dáin was staring at.

Bilbo. Pale and twisting his fingers together in front of himself, in the corner of the room.

“I spoke in haste,” Dáin rumbled, “I didn't see the halfling.” Bilbo puffed up a little, his hands going to his hips.

“ _Hobbit_ , thank you very much, I'm not a half of anything,” he grumbled. Dáin laughed loudly, clapping Thorin on the shoulders before nudging him to sit on the stone seat Bilbo had been using, it left unbroken. Thorin sank down onto it thankfully, rubbing at his face.

“Of all creatures, Bilbo is the most privy to hearing a word here and there.” He looked up when no one responded, frowning at the way Dáin and Balin were staring at him.

Balin cleared his throat, clapping his hands together.

“Yes, the Arkenstone. It's changed colour and no longer shimmers, but it's still most definitely the Arkenstone. Gandalf's taken it to the elves, and another wizard has been informed, I believe.”

“Elves!” Dáin groaned, “Curse the elves! My lads stopped one trying to get into the mountain this morning – a red-haired one of Thranduil's, and I've been told we're to expect another one soon,” he grumbled, leaning against the fireplace and crossing his arms.

Thorin rubbed his fingers over his forehead, a headache brewing.

“They may know by what magic Thorin is with us again,” Balin pointed out.

“Aye, and what nature of magic,” Dáin murmured, “I've heard rumours, you know, from the battlefield. From the mouths of dying orcs, mind, but chilling enough the soldiers are still whispering about it. A necromancer, in the north. Those were his foul orcs we fought.” Thorin looked up, feeling his heart seize.

“... A necromancer...?” he whispered, the room going freezing cold around him. He turned to Balin and then Bilbo, “Have you heard this, too...?” Both were silent for a long moment before they nodded.

Bilbo stepped forwards.

“Gandalf told me he fought him at Dol Guldur. He said the Lady Galadriel was there also, and Lord Elrond, and Saruman the White. He said-- ...”

The hobbit sighed, one hand drifting to touch over the pocket of his waistcoat. He snatched his fingers back, clasping them behind him.

“He said it was the Enemy.”

Dáin growled and Thorin dropped his head. His stomach twisted, nausea rising up inside him. Ice flooded his veins and sweat pricked all over his skin, his mind reeling. Necromancy. The Enemy.

“But Gandalf said he was not strong, and Saruman chased him down and banished him,” Bilbo added. Thorin shook his head, pushing himself to his feet and staggering a little.

He hadn't even begun to think of what magic had brought him back. Hadn't considered whether it was good magic or evil, and Mahal knew he was susceptible to evil magic, madness, sickness, he was--!

“Laddie,” Balin's voice wrenched him back, the older dwarf's hands firm on his arms. “Laddie, we don't know anything yet. You are hale and whole – more so than we have seen you in a good long while, to tell the truth.”

Thorin's hands were shaking as he gripped Balin's shoulders, breathing ragged. Hale and whole. He did not feel hale and whole. He felt like he was ready to shatter apart.

 _You are changed, Thorin_. _The dwarf I met at Bag-End would never go back on his word! Would never doubt the loyalty of his kin!_

“Thorin.”

Bilbo's voice made him jerk, almost stumbling as one of Bilbo's smaller hands touched his shoulder.

“I should have died,” he rasped, and the words felt like boulders dropping from his lips, crashing down from him, “I should have died and rotted, and-- ...”

“--Stop that,” Bilbo said firmly. He tugged at Thorin's arm, and Thorin let himself be lead haltingly over to the stone seat again, let himself be pushed down onto it, “Just... stop that. You shouldn't have died – and if you want my opinion, I don't think this magic is anything dark and horrible at all! It's perfectly clear when someone has evil in them, from what I've seen, and it's just as clear when someone has nasty intentions. None of which I can see in you.”

Thorin tore his arms away from Bilbo's grip, burying his head in his hands.

“And what do you see in me, then?” he snarled, the grate of Dáin's iron foot against the stone floor making his shoulders sag a little. Bilbo fell quiet before he sighed, heavily.

“I see someone who needs to have a couple of good, hearty hobbit meals, a pipe full of Old Toby, and a very nice, long walk to clear the cobwebs from his head.” Thorin looked up at him, silence ringing around the room. Dáin suddenly burst into laughter, Bilbo jumping from the sudden noise.

“Too right!” he laughed, hands on his hips, “The lad's spot on. Of course you're as muddled as a clay hammer. You died, for Mahal's sake, Thorin, if that doesn't shake you down to your jewels nothing will! And besides,” he added cheerily, “if it is dark magic and you sprout wings and a tail and start breathing fire or something, I'll send you to Mahal's halls myself.”

“Oh, really, that's in no way help--!” Bilbo spluttered, but Thorin interrupted, eyes fixed on his cousin.

“--Thank you. I will hold you to that,” he murmured, utterly sincere. “If I become changed beyond measure... I will hold you to that.”

“Aye,” Dáin nodded, “and I will keep my word.”

“Dwarves...!” Bilbo exclaimed faintly, pressing his hand over his eyes as Balin chuckled.

“Well, now, all that aside... we do have another matter at hand,” he said seriously, smoothing down his beard. Thorin hung his head again with a sigh.

“... The reign of Erebor,” he muttered. Silence stretched out between them.

Dáin pushed himself away from the wall, walking over to the pitcher of water and pouring himself a tankard.

“You don't have to. Fíli'll make a fine king – got all your best features – and I'll back his claim,” he said, gulping from the cup before putting it back down and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“He's too young,” Thorin grumbled.

“He wasn't too young to offer his life for the quest, and he is well of age,” Balin pointed out. Thorin gritted his teeth.

“Kingship is different – he will be responsible for countless numbers of lives, not just his own. The quest was his choice, this--”

“--Should also be his choice, unless you wish to rule, Thorin,” Balin said, hands behind his back.

Thorin swallowed, turning his head to look at Dáin.

“And your claim?”

“Claim? What claim!” Dáin laughed, “I have no claim when two of the line of Durin sit in Erebor! No, I have my own mountains – note the plural – to rule. Had all your line fallen, then... aye, I would have ruled in your stead,” he nodded, “and believed it was what you would have wished.”

“It would have been, and your right. You are also from the line of Durin.” Thorin put his head in his hands, “... No dwarf would accept me as their king. I fell. I fell to madness and sickness, and I fell to Azog's blade.”

“And despite all that, you're here and alive, laddie,” Balin smiled. Thorin felt Balin's hand fall heavy on his shoulder, “you're alive. On those cursed fields outside Khazad-dûm I thought to myself that there, standing right there in front of me, was a king. I still think that now.”

“Aye,” Dáin added, his hand falling on Thorin's other shoulder, “We all fall. Whether it be in pig's shit,” Thorin snorted, a memory of him and Dáin as children tumbling waist deep into a manure pile while trying to escape guards slamming into him, “or to sickness. I'll back your claim to the throne, cousin, as I always have done.”

Bilbo cleared his throat. Thorin looked up at him, a tightness in his chest as Bilbo smiled down at him, rocking on his bare heels.

“And I'll vouch for your character, to anyone who might ask.”

Thorin breathed out a little laugh, some of the tension suffocating him easing. He could trust Bilbo. Beyond anything and anyone... he could trust Bilbo to do the right thing, as he had done before.

 

 

*

_Reunion hurried on by the younger_

_On swift heels that melancholies usher_

 

 

Thorin III, son of Dáin II, reached behind him to tie the loose part of his copper coloured hair up into a high bun so it sat above the tumbling, interlocking braids falling across his shoulders. He dragged his hands down his beard, checking the silver clasps were holding his multiple braids in place and tilting his head to see the sharp angle of it – longer in the front and shorter back towards his ears.

“Stop preening!” Came a laugh as the door behind him opened suddenly, “you're worse than an elf!”

Thorin jumped, turning to face the young dwarf who had burst into the room, her black hair braided close to her skull and ending in a shimmer of clasps made from gold and pearl that hung thick and sleek down her back, her beard long with a simple braid down the middle of it. She was dressed in thick leather armour and stout boots, a broadsword on her back and a smile on her full lips, green eyes framed by thick lashes and dark skin smattered with darker freckles.

 

“Valka,” Thorin frowned, cheeks colouring as he pulled on his crimson overcoat, “shouldn't you be with the caravans?”

“Aye, with you, my lord! The hour is later than you think,” she laughed, her hands on her hips, “and I've been sent to find you. We're leaving and your father wouldn't be happy if you weren't at the front but instead running after like a dwarrow late to their first day of school!”

Thorin tsked, grabbing his rucksack and slinging it onto his shoulders, nodding his head. It would be no good whatsoever if he was late to his own first trek from the Iron Mountains down to Erebor, bringing behind him a caravan of twenty covered carts stocked high with supplies and escorted by a company of eighty dwarves.

He had been surprised when a letter had arrived from Dáin asking him to lead the caravans over the Ân Tharkh. After all, he hadn't been allowed to march with him to war despite being seventy-five, no matter how much he begged, though the honour at being named Lord of the Iron Hills in his father's absence had humbled him for a while.

It hadn't taken long for news to come of the victory at Erebor, and the death of Thorin Oakenshield.

His father had told endless stories of them as children and Thorin sighed to himself as he followed Valka down the corridor towards the main gates. Dáin would be beside himself with grief, his mother had said to him, and while Thorin was going on his own merit... he was also going for his father. To remind him of what still lived. What was still good.

Above all, it was an honour. His mother, Hlin, had taken charge of the Iron Hills when the raven had come with the summons, and the next few days had been a mad rush of activity to ready the supplies and the dwarrows.

“You're dreaming again,” Valka smiled, gently nudging him as they stepped out of the mountain and into the open plain before it where the caravan was waiting. The carts were lined up, ponies and oxen standing in front of them and dwarves ready to walk alongside their livestock. The grass was brown and tough under their feet, and winter’s chill was in the air. Thorin snorted, shooting her a rueful smile.

“Aye, I am. Are you riding with me at the front?” he asked.

“No. My father has stacked our caravan so full of cloth the poor ponies can barely move it,” she laughed, “I'll be helping him push it when they tire out.”

Thorin laughed too, clapping her shoulder and nodding.

“Then I'll see you when we stop for rest.”

“And not before!” she grinned, ducking into a short bow, heading over to where her father was petting the faces of his ponies. His white hair was tied high on his head, an explosion of tight curls with braids zigzagging across his scalp, several curls in the mouth of an exceptionally friendly mare. He lifted his hand in greeting, Thorin lifting his own before moving to the front of the line and mounting the large ram saddled up for him. Valka had been a sound friend ever since he and her, at a mere ten years old, had gone on their own 'adventure' - ending in them getting lost for an entire day and the whole of the Iron Hills being turned almost upside down to find them, safe and sound, in a cupboard in the massive communal kitchen, a veritable feast between them.

He took a deep breath, swinging the ram around to face the caravans as he stood up on his stirrups.

“Today,” he called, his voice echoing between the sweeping sides of the mountains, “we ride for Erebor, to bring aid and support to our victorious kin!” The dwarves cheered loudly, clapping and stamping their feet, “Today we celebrate the reclamation of one of the greatest dwarf kingdoms ever carved from willing stone! We celebrate the death of Smaug the Terrible, and the conquests of Dáin Ironfoot, and the survival of Prince Fíli, rightful King under the Mountain, and Prince Kíli. Today,” he called, the dwarves around him going silent at the serious tone in his voice.

“Today,” Thorin repeated, “we march in memory of Thorin Oakenshield, one of the greatest warriors and leaders since Durin the Deathless himself. And now, onwards! To Erebor!” he turned his ram, the guards behind him blowing long, loud notes on horns wrought from silver and gold, the ground shivering beneath their feet as the ponies and oxen strained against their loads and started to lead the caravan out from the Iron Hills, the great Ân Tharkh running silently below their feet.

 

 

*

_A-round the table negotiations flow_

_Nerves rattle for the impresario_

 

 

“Then it is decided,” Balin said seriously, hands clasped in front of him on the stone table. The entire Company of Thorin Oakenshield was sitting around it, joined by Dáin, Gandalf, and Bilbo. Two windows had been set vertically into the walls of the counsel room long ago, the chamber filled with the warm light of the approaching evening. Each had two disks of crystal set into them, half a foot thick, and slivers of different coloured gems and stones as thin as leaves had been placed between the them. Different coloured shades and spots of light played over the walls and floor, creating intricate and beautiful patterns while a sheer drop of hundreds of feet fell away from under the outside of them.

Thorin nodded, a downwards curve to his shoulders, hands flat on the table. He was dressed in a simple but elegant dark blue tunic, the belt around his middle made of leather and sturdy boots on his feet.

“Thorin II will reign, as he should, and Prince Fíli will be named rightful heir in the absence of a son of Thorin's own making,” Dáin nodded, arms crossed and feet up on the table in front of him, “and Prince Kíli after him. You will have my full support, cousin.”

“You cannot guarantee the support of your peoples,” Thorin murmured, looking over to his fiery cousin  sat between Óin and Bofur.

“They follow me, and I follow you,” Dáin said simply and firmly, “Cousin, you will be celebrated. All have grieved your passing, all were ready to swear fealty to your kingship. They will swear it now.” Thorin nodded, but his chest felt tight and his heart heavy.

“Any who don't will have me to face,” Dwalin growled, his fingers curling into fists, the rest of the company voicing their assent and nodding along.

“Uncle,” Fíli said, reaching out from where he was sitting on Thorin's right and touching his arm, “this is what you wanted. It's what we all wanted...! You'll make a fair and just king, I know it,” he nodded. Thorin put his hand over Fíli's and squeezed, lifting his head and his chin to look his oldest nephew in the eye. Fíli still looked pale and weary, dark circles under his eyes, and a flashing vision of Fíli tumbling down, down, down left his heart pounding for a second.

“Fíli is right,” Gandalf said gently, “your sickness has passed, Thorin. You are strong again in mind and body, and a son of great kings before you. And you have excellent company to council you,” he smiled, linking his fingers together.

Thorin straightened his shoulders and nodded, “It would be an honour to lead you all as king. I do not pretend to believe I deserve it, after I-- … after what I did, to each and every one of you, but if my word means anything to you as it once did... I swear I will rule as I should have done, not as I have done.”

“We know you will, laddie,” Balin beamed, the company breaking out into whoops and claps, slapping each other on the back and arms, “Well! Then I shall make the necessary preparations, and tomorrow we shall call all into the Throne Room – men, elves, and dwarves – and announce you.”

“What of my death...?” Thorin asked, the room quieting around them all, nervous glances exchanged between the dwarves around the table.

“Mahal has returned you to us,” Glóin said firmly. Thorin blinked at him and then around the company, breathing out a little, surprised laugh.

“... You cannot believe that,” he breathed, but each and every dwarf met his eyes. Gandalf and Bilbo, however, did not.

“Aye, I can,” Balin said, “and I will. Mahal has returned the rightful king to us, to bring us peace and prosperity – both hard-won.”

Thorin shook his head in disbelief. No, Mahal had not brought him back. If their Maker had a stone that could resurrect the dead it would be known. Only dark magic could raise the deceased. He turned to Bilbo, the hobbit still avoiding his gaze.

“And you? Do you believe this?” he asked. Bilbo fidgeted nervously for a moment before he threw his hands up into the air.

“Oh! I don't-- … I don't know, to be quite honest, what to believe. All I know is... I'm very happy you're back with us. I don't like to speculate on what sort of magic brought you back – and besides, I hardly think my opinion in this matter, well, matters.”

Thorin turned back to the company, his heart beating erratically and too hard against his ribs. He heaved a sigh, rubbing his face with his hands.

“What if there's a revolt?”

“Then it'll be taken care of, cousin,” Dáin laughed, “You're worrying too much! You're a warrior, Thorin, not a worrier - though you're damn good at the latter. Cheer up, will you?”

Thorin levelled him a glare before he snorted and smiled, though his heart wasn't in it. He pushed himself to stand.

“Your support means more to me than I have words for,” he said, bowing his head a little, “but now I will take my leave, and have some time to myself to think. I will leave the other matters of this council to you, and assume my duties tomorrow.” The others nodded, as Thorin ducked his head in another bow and turned on his heel, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him, striding the short distance to his quarters – an old servant's room.

His heart was still pounding and he felt strangely light-headed. This was what he'd wanted. To reign as king. King under the Mountain, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór in his rightful place...! He'd been so eager to slip on his grandfather's armour and mantle, to set the cold crown onto his brow and sit in the throne – and it had felt so right, he could remember it through the fog of his madness. He'd been powerful, more than he'd ever been in his life, but it hadn't been real.

He'd been weak.

He'd been weak and cruel and vicious, he'd broken his promise and his word, and he had showed his true colours. The mere thought of the crown felt like it was dragging him down as he closed his door behind him and collapsed down onto the repaired chair, his head in his hands. Visions of weapons being drawn tomorrow, the shouts and clamours of men and elves and dwarves, teeth bared and eyes shining with hatred flashed before his eyes. Who would swear to follow a mad king, a reanimated corpse?

Thorin grunted, his head pounding and stomach twisting sickly. He didn't know for what purpose he'd been saved, but somewhere deep in his gut... he doubted it was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to extend a special thank you to my wonderful friend who is a linguistics student and who has gotten really excited by Khuzdul. She's incredibly bright and is able to understand the amazing works of the Dwarrow Scholar, and is helping me make sure I'm getting my Khuzdul as right as possible! Please check her out at: [her tumblr!](http://love-is-a-two-place-predicate.tumblr.com)
> 
> You can find my incredible and wonderful beta at: [Texasdreamer01](http://texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) \- please check her out!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at: [Yubiwamonogatari](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com) please feel free to come and say hi if you'd like to!
> 
> A massive thanks also to the wonderful [Quel](http://tosquinha.tumblr.com/post/130820968342/yubiwamonogatari-commissioned-a-tiny-valka-a-rad) who drew the gorgeous art in the 6th section of this chapter!
> 
> Zê'baraj = First Level  
> Mannur Bunûn = Market of Treasures  
> Nibgînu Uzbâd = Gallery of Kings  
> Shulnu Gabil = Great Harbour (technically dock but I tried)  
> Amrâlimê = I love you (or love of mine! It's a pun!)  
> Zahur Zabbad = Houses of the Lords  
> Mukbu Gabil = Great Library  
> Shamukh = Hail / Greetings  
> Raklaban = the Arkenstone  
> Azrâd = Magic  
> Ân Tharkh = River Road
> 
> Notes on the poems by Texasdreamer01:  
> Truculent - mid 16th century: from Latin truculentus, from trux, truc- ‘fierce.’  
> Dole - Old English dāl ‘division, portion, or share,’ of Germanic origin; related to deal  
> Conclave - late Middle English (denoting a private room): via French from Latin conclave ‘lockable room,’ from con- ‘with’ + clavis ‘key.’  
> Younger - (Scottish) denoting the heir of a landed commoner. "Hugh Magnus Macleod, younger of Macleod"  
> Impresario - mid 18th century: from Italian, from impresa ‘undertaking.’


	4. Akabâl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot even begin to express how grateful I am for all the support and attention this fic has received - thank you, thank you, thank you! I'd also like to extend a massive thanks to my amazing beta [Tex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TexasDreamer01/pseuds/TexasDreamer01) and to all my friends who've helped me through this chapter. 
> 
> You can find me [here on Tumblr](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), and you can find [Tex on her Tumblr here!](http://texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) If you enjoyed the fic, please consider sending her a message there, as she puts in SO much work for so little recognition. 
> 
> Also I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
> 
> There will be a small delay between this chapter and the next, as my wonderful beta is not only moving house, but continent! So it'll be a good few weeks before chapter five will be ready for posting.
> 
> In this chapter there's a piece of art by the wonderful [Ruto](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/) so please check out her tumblr!  
> Enjoy!

 

 

  _T.A 2941_

_November 2nd_

  

 

Thorin opened his door at the knock upon it.

Bilbo was standing in the little corridor with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, dressed in a dwarven tunic. The material was a heavy, butter-soft leather dyed a dark green and expertly taken in to fit him. Probably by Dori, Thorin thought as he glanced at the angular shape of it over Bilbo's smaller form, renowned for his craftsmanship when it came to tailoring. It had a design pressed into the leather, angular patterns with marks where jewels had been set into it with the finest pliers in Erebor, though they had been taken out. His trousers were Bilbo's own but clean and neatly patched in places, his large feet bare on the stone, and a warm, grey overcoat slightly too big over his shoulders.

“Balin said you wanted to see me...?” Bilbo asked carefully. Thorin nodded, brought out of his thoughts as he stepped aside to let him in, closing the door behind him.

On the bed, his outfit for the day had been laid out, but apart from the simple tunic and trousers Thorin had on, none of it had been touched. The items laying on his blanket were all heavy leathers crusted with fur and gems, pieces from outfits his grandfather used to wear.

His stomach had turned when Balin had silently brought them in.

Bilbo let out a low whistle, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking up onto his toes as he looked at them, “I hope you didn't call me here for fashion advice, you know. I couldn't tell a crystal from a diamond, as Kíli likes to say.”

“We need to talk,” Thorin murmured. He turned away from the bed and gestured for Bilbo to sit on the repaired, padded chair by the fireplace, taking the stone seat for himself. Some of the mirth fell from Bilbo's face as he dropped his hands down to his sides, looking to the chair before he squared his shoulders and moved to sit as asked, hands on his knees.

“Alright,” Bilbo nodded, “... about what?”

“Raven Hill.” Bilbo's face paled, his eyes dropping down to his feet immediately.

“And,” Thorin pressed on, “my actions leading up to it.”

Bilbo groaned, putting his head into his hands and shaking it a little.

“Thorin... I spend most of my time desperately trying _not_ to think or talk about all that unpleasantness.”

“You forgave me for my deeds,” Thorin said softly, his hands clasped together and his head a little bowed.

Weariness draped around his shoulders like a mantle. He was so, so tired, and had barely been able to sleep last night. His thoughts had tumbled and rattled around his skull like sharp rocks in a bucket, every second of his madness coming back in sickening, aching clarity.

He'd almost killed Bilbo. He'd hung him over the ramparts and had Gandalf's magic not cut through the fog in his mind for one second... he would have done it. He'd have tossed him down to be dashed against the stones, and he'd have believed himself right. He threatened to kill Dwalin. He'd almost killed every single member of his Company, his beloved sister-sons - all in his sickness.

His madness.

He'd gone mad. He'd lost everything he'd fought so hard to be, so hard _not_ to be. The thoughts had plagued him as he paced around his room, and the mirror he'd turned to face the stone hadn't been turned back.

“Yes, I did,” Bilbo breathed, clasping his hands in a mimic of Thorin's.

“You forgave me... you extended to me a... a courtesy - and a kindness - I didn't deserve so I could die with my heart a little lighter,” Thorin rumbled, gaze flicking up to search Bilbo’s expression, his fingers laced together as he dug his nails into his knuckles, “You forgave me for unforgivable deeds.”

“Oh, they-- … they were hardly unforgivable, and besides, you weren't yourself,” Bilbo muttered, but he didn't meet Thorin's eyes. Silence stretched between them, Bilbo fiddling with the cuff of his tunic. Then Thorin spoke again, so softly it was almost lost to the crackle of the fire.

“Do you still forgive me...?”

Bilbo bit down on his bottom lip, toes curling. The truth was written all over his face. Thorin's chest felt tight and for a moment poisonous bitterness rose up in his throat, hot anger crashing through him. Then it drained, leaving him hollowed out - an empty space inside him, heavier and wearier than before.

“I do forgive you,” Bilbo whispered, his head all but hanging, “I do. It's just-- … I _know_ it wasn't you, I could see that damned gold's pull on you ever since you got near Erebor, and I just knew-- … I knew it wasn't you, it's just...”

“They were my hands who held you over the gate,” Thorin mumbled, every word falling like a hammer, “my hands that held Orcrist to your chest rather than letting you out to escape Smaug, my words that cursed you and ordered you exiled.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, very quietly but with a band of steel through his voice, “Yes. They were.”

Thorin stood.

“I cannot ask for your forgiveness,” he rasped, taking a few short steps towards the low dresser by the wall, turning away from Bilbo and leaning heavily on it. It had been amrâda'gâl after all. Words spoken to one dying to soothe them, to ease their passing. One last kindness.

“Good, you've already done that once. Thorin,” Bilbo sighed, moving to stand, too, “Look... I meant what I said on Raven Hill. I forgave you and... if you'd stayed dead, it would still be true. I'd have-- … well, I imagine I'd have gone back to the Shire with a heart as heavy as Erebor itself, but I'd have forgiven you. Truly, utterly forgiven you. But you're not dead, you're alive, and yes, you were sick. You were sicker than I've ever seen anyone else before in my life, but you did cruel things. I know it wasn't you, I _know_ it was the sickness, I know that, I really do...” he murmured, voice thick.

Thorin gritted his teeth, fingers curling into fists on the stone. He didn't need Bilbo to remind him of his failures, of his wrongs and his mistakes, of all those he'd hurt. Of how much he'd hurt Bilbo himself. He knew it all too well.

Bilbo sighed heavily from behind him, voice coming back a little stronger.

“You're not sick anymore. You apologised, back then, and I believe you meant every word – and you've lived up to them since! I forgive you, I do, but... it's going to take some time to... to move on from it. You can't expect me to believe you completely forgive _me_ just like that, after all! I took the Arkenstone from right under your nose! I kept it in my pocket, I lied, I watched you tear the treasure room apart for it, I--... I accepted that mail shirt you gave me, and I betrayed you by putting that stone right into Thranduil's hand. For your own good, mind, but I...” Bilbo trailed off as Thorin slowly turned on his heel to look at him.

Bilbo's nose was red, his eyes watery as he rubbed at his cheeks.

“... I hurt you. Very much so, and you can deny it all you want, but you considered me a very good friend back then. You confided in me that you believed someone had betrayed you, and... it was me. Though I only did it to protect you and help you... you cannot tell me you totally forgive me, either.”

“No,” Thorin whispered, “I don't.”

He swallowed, fingers loose by his side. He could still remember the ripping, burning pain as he'd turned to Bilbo on those ramparts, when his treachery had been laid bare. He believed now – utterly – that Bilbo had done it to save them all the only way he could see how, but...

“Well, then,” Bilbo said, rubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes, “See? I forgive you, and you forgive me, but it's still going to take some time for the both of us. Now,” he nodded, hands on his hips, “all this bothersome talking has given me an appetite for second breakfast, and I doubt you've had your first, from the look of you.”

Thorin crooked a small smile and shook his head. Bilbo tsked, throwing his hands up in the air.

“And you were the one always bothering me to eat on the quest!”

“Your kind eat seven meals a day,” Thorin pointed out, “and we only provided two, if that.”

“Yes, and I survived quite well if I may say so myself, though I doubt any other hobbit would agree; they'd think I was the one risen from the dead if I traipsed back to the Shire like this!” Bilbo exclaimed, shaking his head.

Thorin snorted, but a twinge of heavy guilt rushed through him.

“Go and get your second breakfast, Bilbo, and keep my first for your elevenses,” he said softly, turning away to look again at the clothing laid out on the bed.

“Nonsense, I'll have my second yes, but I'll bring your first up – if you don't mind the company,” Bilbo said firmly, opening the door but hesitating at it, one hand resting on the handle as he turned a little to look back at Thorin.

“... I don't mind,” Thorin replied after a pause. He wanted to be alone, yes, but at the same time he didn't want to be left with his thoughts and memories. Not just yet. The door closed behind Bilbo and Thorin sighed heavily, alone in the silent room.

Bilbo forgave him. He forgave Bilbo. It didn't mean he forgave himself, nor did it mean Bilbo's betrayal still didn't sting at him - didn't needle somewhere deep inside him, even if he knew it had been right. Even though he was now glad Bilbo had done it. Thorin groaned softly, sitting down on the stone seat and rubbing his hands over his face with a shaky exhale.

Forgiveness was not a simple thing. It didn’t take away the hurt, or the fear. Bilbo had betrayed him, yes, but he had done the same, hadn’t he? He’d broken his word after Bilbo had vouched for him, he’d spewed poison about his loyal - far too loyal - Company, and he’d almost taken Bilbo’s life. Forgiveness, he thought to himself, was just the first step in atonement. Not to mention he’d only sought forgiveness from Bilbo so far, forgiveness from someone who had already given him it.

He had so much more forgiveness to beg for from his Company. Thorin sighed, pressing his fingers to his temples as his head throbbed, a headache brewing.

Sleep. He needed sleep. But there was no time, no space for it. He had to dress, eat, and then don his grandfather's clothing and present himself to his subjects, the men of Dale, and the elves of Mirkwood.

His people wouldn't accept him. How _could_ they accept him? He had been a terrible king before he'd died, and now he was alive again thanks to some dark, evil magic. He'd proven how little his word and his honour meant to himself – how easy it was for him to break it.

Thorin stood, picking up an overcoat studded with sapphires and with threads of silver through it in swirling, beautiful shapes.

No gold had crossed his vision yet. The metal on his outfits was silver and mithril in places, but not gold.

He breathed out a little laugh and felt almost relieved.

The Company didn't trust him either. They would be watching him, they would see if he became changed. Again. They would know, and this time... Dáin would stop him.

It was a comfort, but a cold one. He couldn't let himself slip. More than ever now he had to be on his guard, he had to be careful. He had to be the king he had sworn to be, he had to prove himself worthy – and Mahal knew, he wasn't. Not now. Not anymore.

Thorin stood again, starting to pull on the clothing laid out for him and ignoring the rolling, sick feeling in his belly.

 

 

 

*

_T.A 2941_

_November 3rd_

  

 

“Fíli!” Kíli dropped to his knees, tugging Fíli's long, blond hair back from his face as his brother gripped the bucket he was kneeling over and heaved, “Mahal... Fíli, it's alright, I've got you,” Kíli murmured, one hand holding back his hair and the other rubbing gently at his back – avoiding his wound.

“'M fine,” Fíli gasped, groaning softly before he heaved again.

He'd woken feeling like he was on fire and freezing at the same time. Bera had given him a few worried looks as she'd handed him his breakfast, and Kíli had kindly pointed out he looked like shit. He'd felt it too, but had laughed it off.

Now he wished he hadn't eaten quite so enthusiastically.

Fíli groaned, letting Kíli pull him back from the bucket, hissing as pain curled in the depths of him. They were both dressed in their finery - robes Balin had told them once belonged to their uncle Frerin - their hair washed and brushed and braided, ready to stand on either side of Thorin as the crown princes of Erebor, hale and whole.

“You've got a fever...” Kíli frowned as he pressed his hand to Fíli's forehead, “You're burning up...!”

“I'm fine,” Fíli groaned, pushing Kíli away from him and staggering to his feet. His head was spinning and he was still heaving for breath as he sat down on his bed and swallowed a few times. He pressed his hand to his chest, rubbing the ache there. It didn't ease. The clothing and jewellery on him felt heavier than granite, heavier than carrying all their gear exhausted through mountains and valleys.

“You're the last thing from fine...! I'm getting Óin.”

“No...! Kee, don't. I'm fine. I swear. Come on,” he said, looking up at Kíli with his best, pleading face, “you wouldn't have Óin keep me in bed when uncle's revealed, would you?”

Kíli clearly hesitated, looking to the bucket before back at him as he crossed his arms, reminding Fíli suddenly of their mother.

“Well, no, but... Fee, you're sick. You look really sick, you've got horrible bags under your eyes and you're all sweaty and pale and feverish.”

“Thanks,” Fíli said dryly, swallowing against another dizzying wave of nausea. He brought his hand up to wipe over his face, his muscles aching, “Kíli, _please_. I'll tell Óin afterwards, alright? And you can mother me all you want _after_ I've seen Thorin revealed...! I'm hardly going to drop dead,” he grinned, pushing himself to stand and clapping Kíli's shoulder though his body urged him to fall back into bed and close his eyes.

“Fine,” Kíli grumbled, “but I'm telling Óin the moment it's over, and I'll mother you until you're better.”

Fíli breathed out a little laugh, pressing his forehead to Kíli's.

“And I'll thank you for it, once I'm better.”

“Ugh, you're all clammy and hot... at least bring a cold cloth to put on yourself?” Kíli grumbled, pulling back to grab a rag and dunk it into the bowl of water in the corner of the room, bringing it back to press it to Fíli's forehead.

“Fine, fine,” he sighed, holding it to his brow and pretending it didn't feel like sweet relief and freezing agony all at once.

“What about the bucket?” Kíli asked, looking over to it and wrinkling his nose.

“We'll tell Óin when it's all over,” Fíli said firmly, legs like jelly as he walked over to the door and opened it, ushering his brother out.

His little brother grumbled and shot the bucket a dirty look, “He'll smell it before we have to tell him,” he muttered, waiting for Fíli to fall into step beside him as they walked through the corridor, Fíli breathing out a little chuckle, though he didn't feel like laughing.

He was fine. He knew he was fine, he just... had a cold, or something. A little illness when he was weak. That was all.

 

 

 

*

_Click of gears carries prophetic o'er-tones_

_Secrets risen from the catacombs_

 

 

Thorin's heart pounded against his ribs like a thousand war drums beating in the very depths of him. Sweat pricked cold on his brow, his tongue too big and heavy in his dry mouth. His breathing was shallow but no matter how deeply he tried to pull in air his chest felt like it was crushing down against his lungs, pulse throbbing so hard he was trembling with it. His head span and the hand he was using to brace himself against the wall felt as if it didn't belong to him.

“Thorin...?”

He flinched at Balin's heavy hand on his shoulder, swallowing hard.

“Laddie... are you alright...?” the older dwarf murmured, voice low and careful so as not to carry in the corridor, hidden from sight. Dwalin, Glóin, and Dori were hovering behind Balin, each carrying a shield of steel and silver as big as themselves. Thorin nodded, exhaling sharply.

Below them all three hundred of Dain's warriors were standing on the Barruj Kanâg along with all the men of Esgaroth, and intermingled were a company of Mirkwood elves with Thranduil himself, shoulder to shoulder with Bard, Gandalf just behind them.

Though the room was filled with the cool light of day coming in from high windows long carved into the rock and with thick, thick crystal set in them, there was still a darkness and a gloom. The crystal had been cleaned, Smaug's soot washed away - but the Lukhûdu'arisî had yet to be repaired, and the light did not reach all corners.

The rest of Thorin's company and Dáin were standing in places of honour beside the throne, Fíli to the right and Kíli on the left. The ancient cogs and wheels had still turned smooth enough to rotate the base so the throne faced down towards the gathered crowd with its back to the walkway for guests.

“It's time,” Balin said lowly, squeezing Thorin's shoulder and hefting his own shield, him and Dwalin stepping forward. Dwalin reached up, his shield lifted taller than Balin's, Dori doing the same to Glóin's. Between the four of them they created a wall of burnished metal that completely hid Thorin from view.

“It's time,” Thorin breathed back, a rasp in his voice as he nodded his head.

Balin lifted his hand. Bombur brought his silver trumpet up to his lips, blowing one long, clear note that had silence falling over the men, elves, and dwarves gathered below.

Thorin's legs felt like jelly and concrete. He was frozen for a long moment before Dori's gentle hand on his shoulder stirred him into movement, the party starting to move along the walkway.

He was utterly numb.

Sweat dripped down his spine under the layers of his clothing as he moved with the other four dwarves, gaze flicking between his nephews on either side of the throne and then to Bilbo, who looked almost laughably out of place just behind Kíli. He was wearing no jewels, no leathers or furs, his hands clasped behind his back, feet bare on the stone as they always were.

Thorin sucked in a slow breath, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

It was natural to feel like this. He was about to be revealed as alive again. Soon news of his resurrection would spread, and whispers would fly to all corners of Middle Earth that a mad king brought back by necromancy sat on the throne of Erebor.

The sound of Bombur's trumpet faded and silence fell so thick in the chamber the hair on Thorin's arms rose up under his sleeves. Balin looked to him and he nodded, standing in front of the turned throne, his grandfather's cloak on his shoulders and the circlet – not the crown, not yet – on his brow heavy.

Cold.

“Today,” Balin called, his clear voice bouncing around the open space, the four dwarves still keeping the shields raised to hide Thorin, “Today we gather here to give great news. News so magnificent it is clear Mahal himself has blessed Erebor, and rewarded all dwarrowdom for their hard won victories.”

Bile rose up in Thorin's throat, sweat dripping down from his temples into his beard. His knees and shoulders had locked, some gigantic weight crushing the very air from his lungs as his pulse roared and rushed in his ears. Balin nodded to the shield bearers. All four moved as one, shields coming down and away to reveal Thorin standing at the throne.

“Mahal has given us back our king.”

Silence so loud it was almost deafening roared around him as Thorin looked down at the crowd gathered, at the slack-jawed faces below. He couldn't breathe, utterly frozen. Like cogs and gears sliding into place and turning his mouth opened and he exhaled, tongue and teeth and throat moving to speak.

“I humbly stand before you and offer you all my deepest gratitude for your work during my respite. You have kept this great mountain running so it may one day return to the glory it once held under the rule of Thrór, and many kings both before and hence.”

It was as if he was standing beside himself, watching while he spoke the words he and Balin had prepared earlier.

“Though I was grievously wounded and all hope was lost, thanks to both our own healers and the skills of our guests, the line of Durin remains unbroken. Erebor shall once more prosper, and hard won peace shall be had. I ask-- ...”

His voice broke and he inhaled sharply, suddenly so dizzy he felt like he might tumble from the walkway down into the heart of the mountain and be smote upon the stone.

“... I ask for your trust once more. I ask that you follow me as you once did.”

Thorin swallowed and stepped back – though it was more of a stagger – until he could sit on the throne, the marble cold beneath his hands as he gripped the armrests. His heart was crashing against his crushing ribs and his body was clammy with a cold sweat. The silver and mithril rings on his fingers felt as heavy as shackles, cold, and greasy.

What was _happening_ to him? Where was his courage, his strength? He felt like a child trembling in the company of a wolf. He had fought battles and dragons, had slain wargs and giant spiders and Azog himself. He had died, and come back, and done so many things – so why now did his courage desert him? Why was he sickened, shaking, sweating?

The hall was silent, and all Thorin could hear was the rasp of his own breath.

They weren't answering. They didn't accept him as king. He gripped the armrests so hard his fingers turned white, his teeth gritting together so fiercely his jaw ached.

Suddenly a young voice called up from the crowd, a single fist lifting into the air.

“Durin the Deathless!”

“Bera,” Kíli breathed just loudly enough for Thorin to hear as a rumbling roar rose from the crowd, dwarven fists flying up in unison.

“Durin the Deathless! Durin the Deathless! Durin the Deathless!”

The mountain seemed to shake with it, stealing the air from Thorin's lungs as the crowd cried out, the men joining in after a few seconds, though the elves stood silent. His eyes caught Thranduil's and the piercing sharpness to his stare was like a shard of ice through his heart.

Thranduil, at least, wasn't foolish enough to believe he was a reincarnation of Durin. Thorin broke the stare, dropping his eyes down to his boots. The throne beneath him vibrated with each cry and he knew he should stand, he should lift his arm to mirror his people, he should _move_ , but he was frozen.

“Thorin.”

He flinched as Dáin spoke and dropped his hand down onto Thorin's shoulder.

“Thorin,” Dáin repeated softly, “stand, cousin. I walk behind you, every step of the way. I've got your back. Galabi banth mukhuh tanni mudtu tutur.”

His legs were granite and grass-stalks. If he moved to stand he'd fall, he'd crumble, if he could move at all.

“Thorin,” came a gentle voice from his other side, “they're cheering for you.”

It took every ounce of strength he had to turn his head just enough to see Bilbo. They shouldn't be cheering for him. He would fall again, and they would regret their loyalty.

He swallowed hard and turned his head forwards again, pushing himself up onto his feet like ancient stone grinding into place. Thorin lifted his arm, fingers clenched in a fist, mimicking the crowd below.

The chant turned into a roar, the stamping of feet and clapping of hands like thunder in the cavern, rattling his bones and his teeth inside his skull.

Durin the Deathless.

No. Not he.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“Well,” Balin said brightly as he tapped his fingers against the golden goblet of wine in front of him, “that went much better than expected.”

“Durin the Deathless does have rather a nice ring to it,” Bilbo sighed in agreement, his chin resting on his hand. He idly picked at the last morsels of food on his plate, glancing over to the fireplace as a log popped and cracked. The two of them were in Balin's chambers while Thorin rested alone in his own, having refused lunch and company.

“A very nice ring to it. An idea and a belief is a much more powerful thing than any gem. Magic,” he added dryly, “or not.”

Bilbo breathed out a little laugh as Balin crooked a wry little smile at him. The hobbit, Balin noted, looked weary. Not as weary as he'd seen him in the past, but hardly the same little fellow he'd met in the Shire. Bilbo was quiet, poking and prodding at crumbs. Then he folded both his hands in front of him, tearing them apart as soon as they touched to brush fingers through his curly hair and finally clasping them together again.

“Do you think-- ...” he started, going silent and staring at Balin. Then he sighed loudly and slumped a little against the table, a miserable curl to his lips, “... Do you think he's alright? Thorin, I mean. Do you think he's really alright...?”

“...No,” Balin said softly after a moment of thought and a slow exhale.

No, Thorin was not altogether alright.

Bilbo groaned out a low noise, burying his face in his hands. Balin held his tongue, letting his thoughts settle in his mind before he spoke again, his voice soft.

“Thorin died. He died and some unknown magic has brought him back to life. The only power of resurrection _I_ know of is necromancy. Dark things - evil things, laddie, things that have no place in this world.”

“But Thorin cannot-- … he cannot be... that's just... not fair,” Bilbo finished softly. Balin took another sip of his wine, a weight in his stomach and a dryness in his mouth the drink didn't quench.

“You weren't with him before we walked out. I have never seen him so... afraid. Aye, afraid,” he nodded as Bilbo glanced up at him, “Sweating and shaking and looking ready enough to collapse under a puff of wind.”

“He's been afraid before. He's not hidden it, fear is normal...! And it's natural to be nervous before something like that though, isn't it...?” the hobbit asked weakly.

“Nervous, aye, but Thorin looked ready to die of fright,” Balin sighed and shook his head, “Something is changed in him. For good or for bad, this Thorin is not quite the Thorin who died.”

“The Thorin who died was different from the Thorin before that dratted sickness got a hold of him,” Bilbo pointed out, both his hands falling down onto the table, “I am not the same hobbit you met in Bag-End, after all...!”

“Aye, that's true enough,” he chuckled, “Still... whether there is sickness or evil in him, I do not know.”

“But you're worried about him either way.”

“I am.”

“It just... it all seems so terribly unfair to me. He gave up so much only to fall to that horrid sickness and then to bloody well _die_ , you'd think something good would happen to him,” Bilbo grumbled, twisting his fingers together and biting his bottom lip, his brow furrowed.

“And him being alive again isn't good enough?” Balin asked, raising his eyebrows. The hobbit looked up at him, mouth opening a little as his nose twitched.

“Well,” he blustered, “well, of course it's good enough! It's more than good enough, it's just...! He deserves-- … he deserves-- ...”

Balin crooked a small smile as Bilbo looked away, resting his chin on his hands.

“... He deserves to be happy,” Bilbo murmured, finally, “Yes, he deserves to be happy.”

“He will be, laddie,” Balin said warmly, reaching forwards to gently pat the other's arm, “In time. I've seen many a dwarf like Thorin after war. Most of them find happiness and peace again.”

Bilbo looked back over to him, a little downwards curl to his lips, “Most?”

“Most,” he nodded, taking another sip of his wine, “I don't know what power the Arkenstone had to raise the dead, but the more I think on it the gladder I am it no longer sits above the head of kings. Power like that... it seems to me it's a good thing it's all been used up.”

“You think the Arkenstone had something to do with Thorin's illness...?” Bilbo asked, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. Balin didn't respond as he rubbed his thumb against the delicate engravings on his goblet, eyes downcast.

“I don't know,” he finally said, tapping his fingers against the table and looking up at Bilbo again, “But if the stone contained magic strong enough to undo death... who's to say what effect it had on Thror and Thrain, and Thorin too.”

“But he never had it!” Bilbo exclaimed, “ _I_ had it all along!”

Balin snorted, crooking a wry smile at him, “Aye, I know, but you were at his side constantly. Towards the end... you were the only one he trusted. Perhaps he felt the pull of it on your person, perhaps it was something...” Balin hesitated before he smiled fondly, “well, something altogether else. Either way, he was still near it. Its magic still lay heavy on dragon-poisoned gold.”

The hobbit fell quiet, head a little bowed as he laced his fingers together.

“You knew I had it the whole time, didn't you...?”

“I did,” Balin nodded. Bilbo crooked a sheepish smile at him, rubbing at his nose.

“You know... I did think there was something odd about it. You just told me it was this large, white gem – and when I got into that treasure room, oh, I was _so_ cross at you! A large white gem, in a room like that!” he laughed ruefully, shaking his head, “But when I saw it...”

Balin nodded again as Bilbo trailed off, the hobbit breathing out a little laugh.

“It was warm in my hands. I thought at first it was because of Smaug's flame, but it never cooled. And it felt sort of... bubbly. Like there was a tiny pot of boiling water in it, the lid tipping this way and that, if it makes any sense.”

“You are one of very few to have held the Arkenstone in your own hands,” Balin said softly, “and you have a sense for magic, do you not?”

“I suppose, though it felt nothing like Rivendell. That was more a tingle in my toes, if I'm honest. The Arkenstone... it was different.”

“Alas, I wouldn't know,” Balin said cheerfully, pushing himself up to stand, “But I know a great many other things. For instance, that Lord Elrond wishes to speak with Thorin again, and it is time I went to the gates to greet him.”

“Oh, of course,” Bilbo nodded, standing and picking up his plate and hesitating, “... Well, I suppose I'll try and see if he'll have some food now.”

“A fine idea.”

Balin turned, opening the door for Bilbo and closing it behind them, waving as Bilbo headed down the corridor towards the kitchen, watching him patter over the stone and into the low gloom. He sighed heavily, starting to walk in the other direction, towards the main gates.

Until they knew what the Arkenstone had truly been, a very careful watch needed to be placed on Thorin. He didn't seem mad or dangerous – and Mahal, Balin had watched him slip inch by inch into it before – but there was something changed in him.

More than ever Thorin needed support. He needed those around him, and so far he'd been receptive to advice and suggestion. While it lasted Balin had to act, had to set in place safeguards, warning signs for the rest of them, watches.

He had lost his friend twice. To madness, and then death, and he'd be damned if he allowed Thorin to be lost again. No, he'd die long before he let Thorin be lost again.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

“Come in,” Thorin called, looking up from the papers he'd been reading. Provided by Dáin, they were inventories of all edible supplies in the mountain. What had been brought by Dáin's army, what had been brought by Thranduil, and what Thorin III was bringing from the Iron Hills. It was barely enough, and a half-penned letter requesting the presence of Thranduil and Bard to discuss the reseeding of the fields outside Erebor sat on his desk.

Bilbo opened the door, a plate in one hand with bread, strips of dried meats, and an apple sitting on it – along with a small pot of honeycomb cubes.

“I've brought you lunch,” Bilbo said, closing the door behind him and putting it down on the table beside the letters.

“I have no appetite for it.” Thorin turned away, clasping his hands behind his back, “You have it.”

“I've had mine already, and you have to eat.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Oh, for--! Thorin!” Bilbo exclaimed, loudly enough Thorin turned back to him with a scowl on his lips, “Now you're just being obtuse. You have to eat. You're not doing anyone any good by not eating, least of all yourself!” Bilbo had his hands on his hips, one foot tapping against the floor. It was almost comical, and Thorin felt defeat pull against the mulish tug of stubbornness under Bilbo's stare.

“Fine,” he finally grumbled, picking up a few pieces of the dried meat and chewing on them, not looking away from Bilbo. His stomach twisted after a few mouthfuls and he turned, rubbing his hand over the nape of his neck as he took a few steps from the plate.

“Balin is fetching Lord Elrond. Apparently he wishes to see me,” Thorin muttered, fingers curling into fists by his side.

“Yes, I know. His sons arrived today, so I would imagine you'll be treated to the pleasure of three elves,” Bilbo said brightly as he put another log on the fire, “And possibly Gandalf too, if you're lucky.”

Thorin groaned softly, but a spark of warmth caught in his chest as he watched Bilbo putter around the room, hanging up the heavy cloak Thorin had all but torn from his body after his reveal.

“I don't believe in luck,” he said softly, a small smile tugging his lips as Bilbo scoffed and shook his head at him.

Another knock on the door sounded out. Bilbo glanced to Thorin, biting down on his bottom lip.

“Do you want me to, ah, leave...?” he asked, gesturing to the door. Thorin shook his head and clasped his hands behind him, calling out.

“Come in.”

The door opened, Elrond stooping a little to step into the room. He bowed, making way for two more elves - the both of them absolutely identical. Thorin drew in a silent breath, trying not to stare too openly. Twins. So rare among dwarves there had only been one documented case.

“Hail Thorin, son of Thráin, King under the mountain. We thank you for allowing us back into Erebor, and into your temporary chambers. These are my sons, Elladan and Elrohir.”

“Hail Lord Elrond of Rivendell, and the lords Elladan and Elrohir,” Thorin replied, inclining his head a little.

“And Master Bilbo,” Elrond said with a note of warmth in his voice, nodding his head to Bilbo who smiled widely back and lifted his hand in greeting, “it's a pleasure to see you again.”

“So this is the hobbit we've heard so much about,” one of the twins said with a twinkle in his eyes, both sharing a glance as Bilbo flushed a little under their scrutiny.

“Yes, well, the pleasure's all mine,” Bilbo laughed, bobbing and bowing a little, “Though please forgive me if I mix you both up!”

“I suppose to you most elves look the same – and we even more so!” the other twin chuckled, both crooking a smile from the left corners of their lips. Bilbo laughed again, shaking his head.

“Twins are hardly uncommon in the Shire! Why, just before I left on this adventure, my cousin Prisca Baggins gave birth to her second set, and Lavender Took had triplets a month or so before that,” he grinned.

Thorin blinked in astonishment, but said nothing as he lowered himself down on the stone seat next to the fireplace, resting his hands on his knees. _Triplets_? Three, at once?

Elrond moved to sit on a wooden chair opposite Thorin which had been brought in – bigger than most dwarven furniture, but still too small for his long limbs.

“We've heard an only child is really rather rare amongst hobbits. Is that so, Master Baggins?” one of the twins asked.

Bilbo's expression lost all its mirth, his eyes skittering away as he clasped his hands in front of himself, shoulders hunching a touch under his overcoat.

“Yes, not often done, that. I suppose my situation is not very usual,” he mumbled, turning away from them and busying himself with rearranging the food left on Thorin's plate. The twins glanced at each other as Thorin scowled, shooting a sharp glare at them.

“Our apologies, Master Baggins, we meant no offence. A single child is not a rarity among elves, nor were we aware you were one,” the other said softly.

“No, no! No offence taken!” Bilbo said airily, but he didn't turn back around, “Anyway, don't let me disturb you with my silly prattling on about hobbits, goodness!”

“You wished to enquire after my health,” Thorin said, crossing his arms and turning his attention to Elrond, “As you can see I'm fully recovered.”

“You are certainly looking well,” Elrond nodded, his hands resting on his knees for a moment before he reached into his robes and drew out what had been the Arkenstone.

Thorin swallowed hard. His gaze flicked from it to Elrond's face and back again, sweat prickling along his brow and the hair on his nape tugging at his skin.

“I thought the Arkenstone was with Gandalf?” he growled.

“It was, and it soon will be again. For now, I have been appointed guardian of it.” Elrond turned the stone in his hand, as if trying to catch the light – but none glittered from its perfectly cut facets. The black veins seemed to twist a little inside it, and Thorin's stomach shuddered and curled.

“I see. Why, then, do you bring it here?”

“It is your birthright, is it not? The jewel to which all dwarves will harken to. The gem you greatly coveted. Here,” he said, and tossed it over.

Thorin moved on pure instinct, reaching out to catch it in his hand as a violent wave of anger rushed up through him. How dare Elrond swan in here with his mocking words, how dare he bring his sons to insult Bilbo, and then have the audacity to _throw_ the Arkenstone around like a pebble?

He swallowed, turning it in his hand. It was cool. No, cold. None of the warmth and shimmering light seemed left in it, and the black streaks were almost pulsing. There was a bitter taste in his mouth and a ringing in his ears, a tremble deep in his hands.

Mahal, he could remember his need for it. His deep, desperate ache for it – the single belief that with it in his hand... all would be well. All of it would have been worthwhile. The way his mind had slipped from defeating Smaug and reclaiming Erebor to... this.

The Arkenstone.

Thorin looked back at Elrond, meeting his cool stare.

“I have learned that possession of such a stone does not a king make,” he said evenly, though anger still bubbled in his stomach, “Nor is it necessarily filled with benevolent magic.”

Elrond held his hand out for the gem. Thorin hesitated, something still drawing him to it despite the metallic taste in his mouth. He reached forwards, dropping it into the elf's hand and caught Bilbo's gaze as he sat back in his seat, the hobbit watching both him and Elrond carefully.

“Nor is it necessarily filled with evil magic,” Elrond said smoothly, slipping it into his robe again, “That still remains to be seen.”

He reached into a pocket on the other side of his robe and drew out a goblet. A golden one, studded with rubies and sapphires – mithril running through the runes engraved around the stem and base of it.

Thorin's breath caught roughly and he pushed himself to stand - so quickly he almost lost his footing, bile rising in his throat. He covered his eyes with his hand, throat working as he tried to swallow, tried to speak, tried to breathe.

“Why have you-- ...” he gritted out, dropping his hand as vicious anger roared back up from his stomach and into his chest and throat, “Do you bring that here to mock me?” Thorin snarled, “or to send me back into the depths of madness?”

“Neither, I should hope,” Elrond said calmly, “You sit on a mountain of gold. You cannot avoid it if you are to be king.” Thorin barked out a short laugh and shook his head roughly.

“Avoid it...? Why should I _not_ avoid it – have I not already proven myself weak in the face of it?” he spat, turning away from the three elves and starting to pace the room, clasping his hands behind him. His chest and shoulders ached - though the wound was as healed as a scar he’d had for a decade - nails were digging into the skin of his wrist. He was sweating, and couldn't quite catch his breath.

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, but he turned away from the hobbit, too.

“You fell once, and you broke its hold on you by your own merits. What makes you think you will fall again?” asked Elrond. Thorin gritted his teeth, eyes fixed on the stone wall in front of him.

“A strain of madness runs deep in my family,” he muttered, voice tight and bitter, “My grandfather lost his mind and my father succumbed to the same sickness.” He turned, Elrond's face as blank as it ever was, “You said it yourself, to Gandalf that night - can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall? I fell.”

Thorin's gaze dropped to the golden goblet in Elrond's hand.

“Can you swear I will not fall again?” he breathed, barely above a whisper, surprisingly hollow even to his own ears. Elrond was silent a long moment. Then he stood, holding the goblet out.

“Take it.”

“No, I will not,” Thorin snarled, “Did you not hear a word I said to you?”

“I heard them better than you did. Take it. You are not suffering from your sickness any longer.”

Not suffering? Not _suffering_? What did this elf know of _suffering_? His teeth ached from how hard he was gritting them together as he all but snatched the goblet from Elrond's hand.

The gold was cold beneath his fingers. His face shimmered, reflected in it, eyes wide and brow damp. Thorin let his thumb trail over the etchings, over the gems and the jewels. It was beautiful. Heavy in hand, the gold buttery-warm and dense, the craftsmanship utterly fantastic.

“May I...?” Elrond murmured, holding his hand out for it again. Thorin levelled him a glare but shoved the goblet back into the elf's palm, clasping his hands behind his back to stop the tremble in his fingers and turning away from them all once more.

Of course he was still suffering from sickness. From madness. It was obvious even to himself there was something wrong. When he could sleep he was plagued by nightmares, by sweats and shakes, by dread gnawing constantly in the pit of his stomach. He had no appetite, his body still felt heavy and listless though it had been several days now since he'd woken, and he felt as if he was constantly on the edge of some terrible battle.

“Thorin,” Elrond said softly, “You are cured of your gold-sickness. If you weren't, you would not have given it to me.”

Thorin froze.

“Gold has no hold over you, beyond what is considered natural,” he continued. Thorin slowly turned again, his breath stoppered in his throat and his heart pounding, “Would you let me have it, if I asked for it in payment?”

“Yes,” Thorin breathed.

“And if I asked for more than one goblet?”

“Yes.”

Elrond crooked a little smile, putting the goblet down onto the table next to Thorin's half-eaten food.

“I cannot say for certain what effects the magic in the Arkenstone may or may not have upon your person. Despite that, I feel this is proof enough that your gold-sickness is behind you. Still... exercise caution, as I'm sure you and your company will, but do not despair,” he said, ducking his head in a short bow as his sons moved to open the door.

Thorin slowly sat down on his seat, feeling like the wind had been knocked from him.

“We will leave you now,” Elrond nodded, his sons bowing and stepping out the door with soft 'farewells!' echoing behind them, “Farewell to you both,” he said to Thorin and Bilbo, closing the door behind himself.

“... Well,” Bilbo whispered, sounding a little shocked, “Well!” He laughed, “That's - yes. That's very good news,” he smiled, dropping his hand onto Thorin's shoulder, “Not that I doubted it, of course.”

Thorin snorted softly, glancing up at him.

“I doubted it.”

“I know,” Bilbo murmured, squeezing his shoulder. He then moved away a little to pick up the goblet, turning it in his hands and setting it down again, “Still. I much prefer nice wood or silver to gold, if I'm honest. Oiled oak, or mahogany, perhaps.”

“Now more than ever I see the appeal in such things. I find gold has lost much of its lustre for me,” Thorin sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes and pushing himself to stand again.

“Understandable,” Bilbo nodded, pausing and then speaking again, “Ori said he and Dwalin have excavated a way into the library, you know.”

“Is that so?”

Thorin walked back over to the desk where his papers sat.

“Yes. And I've been quite eager to see it, only, well. I'm not sure where it is, first of all, and secondly I don't much fancy creeping around in there by myself, if I'm honest.”

He glanced over to the hobbit, raising an eyebrow, “And you fancy the king of Erebor as your guide?”

Bilbo gaped at him for a second before he puffed up a little in indignation, crossing his arms.

“I was rather hoping for a friend as a guide...!” he exclaimed, cheeks staining pink, “And besides, you've been cooped up in this room long enough.”

He chuckled, a strange lightness in his chest where lead had been sitting. Thorin set down the paper he'd picked up and inclined his head.

“Alright.”

“Al-- … really?” Bilbo blinked.

“Really. Come, you will be the first hobbit to have set foot in the Mukbu Gabil,” Thorin smiled, moving to pick up a simple overcoat, strapping Orcrist onto his back and striding past Bilbo to open his door.

“I'm assuming that's your word for a library,” Bilbo said lightly, following him out and closing the door behind him, grinning a little wider as Thorin blinked at him, “Oh, don't worry. I shan't tell Balin you let a word loose. You know, Kíli is simply terrible with letting his Khuzdul slip out.”

“You shouldn't be listening,” Thorin frowned as he began to walk them down the corridor. Bilbo scoffed.

“It's hard not to when you're being spoken to! Wasn't it you who said I, above all, was privy to a word here and there?”

Thorin felt a heat creep into his cheeks as he grumbled out a noise of agreement.

“Well, then,” Bilbo said smugly, “Lead on.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Tauriel unrolled the strip of parchment again, the edges of it already showing signs of wear and use. It had arrived at dawn, strapped to the leg of a raven – though she hadn't realised the message was for her until the bird had squawked and pecked her fingers before shoving its leg in her direction.

A reply from Kíli. She hadn't even needed to open it to know, what with it being tied tightly shut with a strip of leather. Who else, after all, would be sending her notes on a raven? Tauriel ran her fingers over the neat little letters, a smile tugging her lips.

_My dearest Tauriel,_

_I hope you are well. The hours between not seeing you are seem to stretch forever, to me. I only wish to see you again and feel your hand on mine. Memory is not enough, to me. Bilbo is writing this letter for me. You were correct in your thought that I would seek for him when I received your letter._

_I am healing. It is slow, but steady. Soon I will be able to can leave Erebor, or elves will be not forbidden from entering it. I long for that day. A moment without you is bleak. You are my One. Though I almost died, one thing on Middle Earth I could not have beared to be parted from is you. You are always in my forehead._

_You will have heard Thorin Oakingshield is not dead but alive and well. Lord Elrond believe he has conquered his sickness of gold, which is of course the best news. I hope it will mean the friendness between elves and dwarves can get better, and we will have only small battles, not grand one._

_Are you well? Keep my stone. It is our promise. I will come back to you. Please tell me how you fare, tell me your dream and thought._

_I cannot wait for your reply._

_Amrâlimê. Kíli._

_P.S I apologise for all errors in writing, it has been many years from writing and I am slow from time– B.B._

Her heart skipped another beat in her chest as she rolled it back up, tucking it into a pocket hidden in her overcoat. She let her eyes close, dropping her head down and breathing in the smell of wet grass and lake-water. When the morning sun had peeped out from behind the clouds she had taken her leave of Dale for a while, following the river down where it wound its way back towards Esgaroth. It hadn’t taken her long to happen upon a quiet and sunny little bank by the burbling waters.

The sandy grass was dry beneath her, birdsong and a warm breeze drifting over her skin. Behind her sat Erebor and the fields where the armies had fought, and for the first time the air wasn't rancid with the acrid smoke of burning corpses.

Tauriel slid the letter out again, touching over the worn edges of it. She lifted it up, eyes drifting closed as she pressed it to her forehead, and then her lips.

It was love. Oh, it was love, and... it was terrifying.

She was elven, and he was dwarven. He was _mortal_. She had almost tasted the grief of his death once already.

“Tauriel. Man cerig?”

“Hîr nín, Legolas,” she gasped, turning to face him, “Nothing. Reflecting. I was under the impression you were leaving soon to seek out a ranger? The lake is beautiful, is it not?” A nervous smile stretched across her cheeks as she gestured to the water and slipping the note back into her pocket. Legolas's eyes narrowed as he looked out over the lake, stepping up to stand beside her.

“Celin ’siniath o adar nín. Cân i hi danwenidh na le,” he murmured, his gaze softening as he glanced back at her.

“I aran?” Tauriel whispered, a shiver going through her. The last time she had seen her king, he had been running across the battlefield, bloodied and grim-faced, hair lashing behind him and the tiny body of Kíli in his arms – his lips moving to form words of healing.

“Edlennin,” Tauriel breathed, dropping her gaze. She glanced up as Legolas reached out to lay his hand gently on her shoulder, the blond elf silent. Then he crooked a small smile.

“I aran díhena len.”

Tauriel's breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening. Forgiven...?

“Surely you jest,” she whispered, turning her head from him, but he didn't let go of her shoulder.

“I do not. Come,” he smiled, giving her a gentle push, “... surely you cannot be frightened, Tauriel Innor?”

“Tauriel Innor?” she laughed, her shoulders relaxing as she started to walk back to Dale, Legolas falling into step beside her, “I have never been called that before.”

“You are called it now. You defied the king, and even in exile you defied him again. You saved Prince Kíli's life.”

Tauriel felt heat burn her cheeks as she glanced over to her life-long friend.

“Is that all they are calling me...?” she murmured, clasping her hands behind her back as they stepped over the grass and rock.

“Some,” Legolas nodded.

“And others?”

Legolas didn't reply. Her stomach twisted and her step faltered as she looked at him. Tauriel swallowed, stopping and reaching out to grip Legolas's arm for a second, her heart pounding.

“And others?” she demanded. The blond elf was silent for a long moment before he put his hands on her upper arms.

“Ignore them. My father said himself that it is real. Their whispers are nothing and will die out, in time.”

Tauriel shook her head, taking a half-step back from him as his hands dropped back to his sides. The whispers would never die out, not while she loved a dwarf. But Kíli's letter seemed to sit warm over her heart, a little weight against her skin.

“I would have you tell me what they call me before I hear it for myself,” she breathed.

“Madhandil,” he said softly.

Tauriel reared back sharply, gritting out a low noise. Madhandil. It stung at her, digging against her heart as she shook her head. How could she hope to be happily together with someone so different...? Elves would not accept them, neither would dwarves. Where were they to go? She wouldn't be welcome in Erebor, and he wouldn't want to live in Mirkwood.

It was impossible.

“Tauriel,” Legolas murmured, capturing her hands, “it is real. There will be a way. You have my father's support – and for what it's worth, my own.”

She swallowed, her throat tightening and hot tears stinging at her eyes.

“It's worth more to me than the support of any other, mellon nîn,” she whispered, “Hannon le.”

Legolas smiled gently at her and then let go of her hands, starting to lead them back to Dale.

“I cannot say I see the appeal,” he added thoughtfully after a pause, his hands clasped behind his back, “there's so much... _hair_. I can barely tell one from the other, save sometimes by the colour of it.”

She laughed softly and nudged her shoulder against his as they stepped into the city of Dale, heading for Thranduil's tent on the outskirts.

“Perhaps one day you will,” she smiled. Legolas laughed and shot her a wry look.

“Yes, and my father will move to Erebor and ask for Thorin Oakenshield's hand in marriage.”

Tauriel breathed out a giggle, wishing she had the words to express how grateful she was for his enduring friendship and support. Before long they were at the tent and Legolas was turning to her once more.

“Here I will leave you. I shall be setting out tonight, and it may be some time before I return.”

“Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham,” Tauriel murmured, nodding her head and gently pressing Legolas's hand between her own, “Thank you. For all you've done for me.”

“Savo 'lass a lalaith,” Legolas replied, “Na lû e-govaned vîn.” He drew back, inclining his head before he disappeared among the crowds of menfolk repairing the city.

Tauriel slowly exhaled, loosening her fingers from the fists they'd formed. She pushed open the flap of the tent and entered with her head bowed.

“Aran nín,” she said, only just keeping the tremble from her voice as she bowed.

Thranduil turned to face her.

His long hair was loose down his back and his winter crown perched on his head. The silver sprigs of spruce and pine left a fresh, sharp fragrance in the air. His robes were black but threaded with silver, like marsh-grass wafting in a twilight breeze on the shore of some distant, snowy lake. His gaze was firm and cool, but devoid of anger.

“Tauriel. You are well?”

“Yes,” she nodded, clasping her hands behind her back and standing up straight.

“And Prince Kíli?” he asked idly, gesturing for her to come further into the tent as he poured both of them a glass of wine, the colour of it deep and rose-red.

Tauriel flushed, stepping closer and taking the glass when offered. She shakily inclined her head in thanks.

“He owes his life to you, my Lord. I have heard he is recovering well.”

“Good,” Thranduil nodded, taking a sip of his wine and sitting down on his chair, pointing to one opposite him, “Sit.”

She sat.

Her heart was pounding in her chest, a slick of sweat on her palms as she bit down on the inside of her cheek.

“After much careful consideration... I am revoking your banishment from the Greenwood, and my halls.”

“My lord,” Tauriel whispered, her fingers and toes tingling as she exhaled – a great weight she hadn't realised she was carrying slipping from her shoulders.

“For six hundred years you were loyal to me. You were a fine captain of my guard. However... you will not be reclaiming that position. You disobeyed me. You made to make an attempt on my life. These are things I cannot overlook,” he said solemnly, trailing his finger around the rim of the glass.

Tauriel nodded her head, holding her wine in her lap and staring into the red liquid. A silence stretched between them, the fabric of the tent flapping gently in the breeze. The muffled noise of men, elves, and dwarves was audible through the woven walls, the sounds of things being lifted and moved and rebuilt clear in her ears.

“Did I not treat you as if you were my own blood? Have I not treated you well, in our time together?” Thranduil asked, voice almost soft. She looked up and swallowed, her heart aching.

“Yes, my Lord. Always.” He had been like a father to her. A mentor, someone who had taken her in and provided for her.

The elf king nodded and tapped his fingers against his armrest, his gaze never leaving hers.

“You are to be my personal ambassador between my halls and Erebor. You will stay in the mountain – or in Dale, if the dwarves will not let you live among them – and report back to me. You will answer to me, ask the questions I wish to be asked, and gather necessary information.”

Tauriel's lips parted, her eyes wide as she gripped the glass between her fingers. Ambassador of Mirkwood...?

“I-- … I will live... here...?”

“I assume that is your wish,” Thranduil said dryly, raising an eyebrow. Her cheeks burned as she looked down at her hands. To live here, but not be exiled... oh, how she'd miss the trees! The leaves, the woods...! But here, she'd be with Kíli.

“Yes,” she whispered, “it is.”

“Then it is settled,” Thranduil said easily, taking a sip from his wine, “You will come back to my halls for short periods of time to report to me, and receive my instructions, of course. Above all you will be loyal to me, as you once were. In exchange for your loyalty I am giving you sanction to spend whatever time Prince Kíli has with him. I do not seek to separate you from him.”

Tauriel brought her hand up to press over her eyes, her fingers trembling. Sanction. She had her king's blessing to live Kíli's life with him.

“You give me a kindness I would never have expected from any creature, elf or dwarf,” she whispered, her voice tight in her chest. Thranduil was silent for a long moment before he sighed.

“Do not take my pardon for joy. It is pity. To love a mortal... there is nothing more painful. I have tasted death – true, cold death – and a hundred, two hundred, three hundred years hence you will drown in grief. He will die, and you will remain,” Thranduil murmured. She drew in a shaky breath, a sob catching in the hollow of her throat as the blond elf stood.

“The years will pass in the blink of an eye. He will wither, and you will curse what love gave you. You will fade, or you will pass into the West and be forever heavy with his loss.”

Thranduil's hand rested gently on her shoulder as Tauriel drew in a shuddering breath, tears trickling down her cheeks. The pain of her parent's deaths was a wound that had never healed over and already she could taste the agony that would come with Kíli's passing.

“To be apart from him,” she breathed, her words thick and wet with pain, “would be a worse pain.”

“Indeed,” Thranduil said softly. He squeezed her shoulder and drew back, clasping his hands behind him after placing his goblet on a low table. Tauriel took a rasping breath, swallowing hard and drying her tears. She would have forever to weep when he was gone.

“Your first orders are to keep a careful watch on Thorin Oakenshield. Lord Elrond believes him to be free of gold-sickness, but I have my doubts. The effects of whatever dark magic brought him back must also be watched carefully. Political quibbles between those who hold power, those who may seek to usurp or weaken another... you must watch for them all. I want reports on the rebuilding, on their armies,” he said firmly.

He leaned in a little, voice low.

“You will be my eyes and ears inside the mountain.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she whispered, nodding her head even as a cold shiver slid down her spine.

A spy, for all intents and purposes, caught between her king and Kíli.

“I do not wish any of the dwarves harm or hardship. I seek only to be prepared for any outcome. If the dwarves are honest and true, your loyalty to me and your loyalty to Kíli won't be compromised.”

“And if they will not allow me into the mountain...?” she whispered, “If they do not accept-- …?”

“If his feelings are true there will be a way to collect my answers and be with him,” Thranduil said smoothly, drawing back, “I place my trust in you.”

Tauriel nodded, lifting the glass of wine to her lips and finishing it in a few swallows. She dried the last of her tears from her cheeks and stood.

“Hannon le, aran nín.”

“Tauriel,” he called as she drew back the fabric to leave the tent, “Do not disappoint me again.”

She swallowed hard, closing her eyes and bowing her head. Her fingers trembled as she left. She had her wish, but at what price...? Tauriel's hand pressed over her chest, over the shape of Kíli's reply, her lips moving silently around those four little syllables.

There would be a way. Even if it was secret, even if she had to endure the scorn of elves and dwarves and all creatures on Middle Earth, there would be a way to love him.

There had to be.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

A screech rang out, and before Valka could really register what or who had made it she was sprinting towards the front of the caravan. Her arm flew up and behind her, the broadsword clasped to her back all but leaping into her hands as her heart pounded in time with her boots against the earth. The air exploded into chaotic noise a heartbeat after, the shrill cries from the ponies and pigs as well as from the dwarves echoing around her and mingling with the blasts from the trumpets.

“Rukhas! Remenu!” she bellowed, recognising the notes blown from the scouts ahead.

“Valka!”

She turned just enough to see Thorin's hand reaching down from his ram as it sped past her. Valka grabbed it, grunting as she was all but thrown onto the back of the creature, wielding her broadsword in one hand and clinging to her friend with the other. Another few notes sounded.

“Not many,” she gritted out, “They must be a sorry pack retreating from Erebor...!”

“Aye,” Thorin nodded, the ram speeding up over the hill in front of them, “There!”

Just ahead were a snarling group of thirty or so orcs, the scouts riding their rams and boars around them in circles – enough to keep them contained but not yet attacking. Thorin tugged the ram to a halt, standing up in his stirrups and drawing his hammer, taking a deep breath.

“Baruk khazad ai-menu!” he cried, urging his ram forwards as the scouts rushed at the confused and chaotic pack.

Valka leapt from the ram just as it plunged into the fray, hitting the ground hard and rolling to come back up with a sweep of her sword that took the head of an orc from its shoulders.

“Baruk khazad ai-menu!”

It felt like freedom. The steel of her blade bit into the leather armour of the next one, a jet of its black blood spraying over her as she ground her heels into the earth and continued the stroke through to its ending, the foul thing collapsing at her feet.

A knife skittered off her armour and she spun so hard the clasps at the ends of her braids slashed across the next creature's face, forcing it to stagger back with a howl. She swept her sword in a wide arc, and its shriek guttering out.

“Thorin!” she called, glancing up just in time to see one leap for him on top of his ram – but before it could reach him the ram bucked, slamming its rear hooves into the monster's chest and sending it staggering, another dwarf swooping in to run a pike through the orc.

“Nevermind!” she grinned as Thorin turned to look at her. He threw back his head in a laugh and twirled his hammer, crushing the skulls of two more effortlessly as Valka charged back into the fray.

The skirmish barely lasted ten minutes. Every orc lay defeated beneath them, the tough but green grass stained black with blood and thick with the acrid, choking stench of it.

“Injuries?” Thorin called as he trotted his ram in a circle, coming back to where the group of dwarves were gathering in a huddle and dismounting. Valka slipped her broadsword back into its harness and strode over, trying to wipe the thick blood off her hands and onto the leather of her overcoat - though it did little to help clean her skin, and her clothing was rank with gore.

“Aye, my lord,” an older dwarf said, nodding her head and separating a few dwarves from the others, “Nothing major. Stitches here, dislocation here, broken fingers here,” she continued, pointing them out as Thorin nodded, inspecting each one. Three of the youngest and least trained in battle had been hurt, Valka noted – Agna and her sister Erna, as well a young lad known as Drengi.

“Thank you, Miss Etta,” Thorin said as he inclined his head in the older dwarf’s direction. He patted his ram as it ducked its head to graze – seemingly unconcerned by the violence and death suddenly surrounding it, “A good fight was fought here today, and evil sent back to the shadows.”

“Here, here!” Valka cheered, the other dwarves clapping and cheering along. Thorin smiled, clambering back onto his ram and strapping his hammer back in place. He ran his hands over his hair, picking out a stray bit of muck as he looked over the carcasses of the orcs and nodded to himself. Thorin turned back to the company.

“Miss Etta, escort the injured to the caravans and make sure their wounds are treated and they have some rest. Send another three out to join the guard in their place. Scouts, switch now with those still with the caravan. All here find some food, some ale, and some ease.” He turned his mount, urging it to head back over the hill. Thorin looked back over his shoulder, voice only just audible.

“The road will not be as empty as we thought,” he murmured, hastening his ram and disappearing over the hill as he headed back to the others.

Etta nodded to the three with injuries, leading them towards the rear of the caravan, the rest heading for their original positions, laughing and clapping still. Two drew trumpets and blew the notes for victory and danger-passed, a roar of triumph rolling over the hill from the caravan. Valka beamed, joining in with the short bursts of victorious song leaping from the lips of her fellow dwarves.

It didn't take long until she was back with her father, Valkur, taking the wet cloth he held out and wiping herself free of the blood and gore of the orcs as she fell into step beside him.

“Eight fell beneath my sword,” she grinned, drawing said blade to clean off the muck and blood accumulated on it.

Valkur laughed, running his hand over her tight braids and then pulling her close to press their foreheads together. She beamed, pressing a kiss to his whiskered cheek.

“Eight!” he beamed, handing her a waterskin and taking the dirty rag back, “Well, that's a fine number. Your mother would be proud of you. Make sure you include it in your raven home.”

“I will, I will,” she smiled, taking the water and gulping at it. A moment later Thorin rode by them, handing her a small pouch filled with bread, dried meats, fruit, and a small flask of mead.

“For the victorious guards,” he winked, urging his ram on and handing another bag to Agna two carts behind them. Valka didn't waste any time in tucking in, handing bits and pieces to her father despite his gentle protests.

She beamed to herself, chewing on a hunk of salted beef. This was already turning out to be a fine adventure indeed.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“You know,” Bilbo said softly, Thorin looking over as the hobbit lifted his little lamp higher to peer at the rows and rows of books looming out of the gloom, “I asked Gandalf about the mail shirt you gave me.”

Thorin raised his eyebrows, pulling out another book in Westron and setting it aside for Bilbo to look at later. They had spent the last hour or so in the library, two little bobbing circles of light in the long, quiet dark.

“Did you now? And what did Gandalf have to say about it?” Thorin asked idly, sliding a weathered tome from the shelf and blowing on it to shift the dust. Instrumental notation, he realised. One of the original copies for the musical play Elbereth and the Seven Fathers. He crooked a little smile, flicking it open and running his fingers over the thick pages.

“He said it was a kingly gift. He said-- ...” Bilbo's voice caught and Thorin looked up, brow furrowing. Bilbo had turned away from him, one little hand gripping the stone shelf so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

“He said...” Bilbo repeated, drawing a shuddering breath, “That he'd thought you'd be wearing it. And if you had been, then... then Azog's blade wouldn't have...”

Oh.

“... I hadn't considered that,” Thorin murmured, sliding his book back into its place and stepping closer to the other. Bilbo let go of the shelf and crossed his arms, looking small in the dark.

“For someone so wise, Gandalf says an awful lot without thinking, you know,” the hobbit grumbled, “But he was right - if you'd been wearing the mail...”

“His blade wouldn't have pierced me,” Thorin nodded, falling silent. Then he gently gripped Bilbo's shoulder - warm under the grey overcoat - turning the hobbit to face him in the dusk and dust.

“I gave you it as a gift. The thought of taking it back from you has never crossed my mind – nor do I hold you in any way accountable for my injuries,” he added, letting his hands fall back to his sides as Bilbo nodded glumly and sighed, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“Still,” he whispered, “It's a thought I can't seem to shake loose.”

“You cannot blame yourself for my injuries.”

“Oh, and I suppose you don't carry a lick of guilt about Fíli and Kíli, or any of the others who were injured or lost their lives!” Bilbo snapped, glowering up at him. Thorin scowled sharply, Bilbo's words digging at him as he crossed his arms. The hobbit's expression softened, his head bowing a little, “I'm sorry, that... that was uncalled for, I didn't... I'm sorry.”

Thorin stepped back from him, pulling Elbereth and the Seven Fathers back out from its place and turning it over in his hands, memories of him and Dís and Frerin as children howling with delight at Elbereth's antics flashing in his mind.

“...I carry more guilt than I rightly know what to do with,” Thorin muttered, his shoulders slumping a little with weariness, “I doubt those feelings will ever fade.” How was he to face Dwalin and beg for his forgiveness? Fíli, and Kíli? How was he to look his little sister in her eyes and beg forgiveness for almost leaving her without her brother, her children?

“Battle and loss...” he shook his head, “... They leave deep wounds... it is natural to struggle under the weight of grief, but you must not-- ...”

He was stopped by Bilbo's hand gently squeezing his arm.

“--Thorin,” the hobbit murmured, “I have faced death and loss and hardship before. I watched my father pass at eighty, and my mother follow him eight years later due to heart-sickness. I was a young lad of twenty one when the Fell Winter came – I've seen those who've fallen to orcs and wolves and starvation and sickness.”

Thorin breathed out a slow noise, his heart tugging in his chest as he looked back over at Bilbo, brow a little furrowed.

“I didn't realise,” he breathed, “You never said...”

“Well,” Bilbo shrugged, taking his hands back and clasping them behind his back, crooking a little smile, “it's not something I like to think or talk about. Besides, tales of death and gloom were hardly welcomed on the road.”

“Still,” the hobbit sighed, his hands fluttering over his overcoat, “If you'd had the mail, you wouldn't have died. That's the thought stuck in my head, anyway.”

“Try to dislodge it, if you can, or you may find such a thought quickly grows heavier and darker,” Thorin said softly, pulling out another book in Westron and adding it to the pile whilst keeping the other tucked under his arm.

Bilbo raised his eyebrow, “And is this something you're quite adept at...?” he asked lightly. Thorin scowled, pointing his book at him.

“ _That_ was uncalled for. Don't think I can't see the slight in your words,” he grumbled. Bilbo breathed out a little laugh, grinning at him so warm and wide Thorin let his arm drop back down to his side, his irritation muffled.

“It's good advice. Sounds like you could use it – as well as myself,” Bilbo nodded, “... That book, what is it?”

Thorin looked down at his book again before moving closer, showing Bilbo the runes on the front.

“We call it Elbereth and the Seven Fathers. It's a musical play. This is a collection of the scores.”

“ _Elbereth_?” Bilbo exclaimed, narrowing his eyes a little, “You're joking, aren't you?”

Thorin snorted and shook his head, flipping it open to show Bilbo the scores of music – flute parts, drums, fiddles, and many more. Words were written below the voice parts, but all in Khuzdul.

“No. Elbereth and the Seven Fathers. It was – I believe – originally written to celebrate the friendship between elves and dwarves in the First Age. After Thingol's betrayal and his subsequent death the relationship soured. Now it's... a comedy,” Thorin admitted.

“A comedy...?” Bilbo asked, raising his eyebrows with a little laugh.

“Mmn. Elbereth is a comic character, now. She's clumsy and gets things wrong, but in the end she's still... endearing,” he admitted, “When we were children it was performed here in honour of Frerin's tenth birthday by a cast of the most talented dwarves in Middle Earth. He laughed so hard he fell out of his seat three times.”

“Well... maybe one day it'll be performed here again,” Bilbo smiled, “I should certainly like to see it anyhow – unless it's all in Khuzdul, of course.”

Thorin snorted, sliding the book back onto the shelf and picking up his lamp and the crate he'd been putting books into, leading Bilbo further into the library.

“No, now it's usually performed in Westron. It leaves more room for her to make linguistic errors.” Bilbo laughed loudly, lifting his own lamp a little higher.

“Linguistic errors?”

Thorin looked over to the hobbit, hesitating for a moment. A few words here and there... it couldn't hurt. Besides, if Bilbo was to be living with them in Erebor... And after all he'd done...

“... There's a scene where she mixes up amrâl and amrâd, which mean love and death respectively. She tries to tell one of the Fathers that she believes a couple is in love, but mistakenly tells him they're dead,” he finally said.

“An easy mistake to make!” Bilbo laughed, “But why on earth does she use Khuzdul in the first place?”

“Ah, because the Fathers have snuck her into a mountain. In the original she's welcomed and invited, but in the more recent version they dress her as a dwarf with a fake beard, and she has to tie boots onto her knees and gloves onto her elbows. There's a song where they teach her Khuzdul, and she makes mistakes on every line,” he murmured, a fond smile tugging the corners of his lips.

Frerin had woken him up with it every morning for months after, and a single mention of some of the scenes had the power to send him into peals of laughter – always utterly infectious in his joy.

“It sounds like good fun. I should like to see it, if I'm allowed and it's performed,” Bilbo said softly. Thorin crooked another little smile down at the hobbit.

“I should like that, too.”

[ ](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/130373643434)

 

 

 

*

_T.A 2941_

_November 4th_

 

 

 

Kíli yawned deeply as he woke, rolling over in his bed to shove his face back into the pillow, sliding his hands under it and wriggling to get more comfortable. His stone-sense told him it was morning – and as amad had always said, it didn't matter how long one spent above ground, you always knew what time it was below. He grunted out a noise and wriggled again, pushing himself up onto his elbows and looking over to his brother.

Fíli was turned away from him, still asleep. Kíli sat up, stretching gently and touching over his wounds through the dressings. They ached and smarted a little, but on the whole... he felt fine. He felt better than fine, because Tauriel's letter sat snug in his tunic – and maybe he'd get a reply today.

He grunted softly and stood, digging his feet into his fur-lined boots and shivering. Kíli’s stomach grumbled - a reminder breakfast would definitely be welcomed - and he had to use the toilet. He moved over to the fireplace, adding another log to where the embers were smouldering and drawing an overcoat around his shoulders.

“I'm gonna call for breakfast, Fee,” he said cheerily as he stretched again, heading to the door and paying no mind to the lack of answer from his brother as he left the room. He relieved himself, washed his hands and face, and asked the one of the dwarves on guard for breakfast to be sent up before going back into the warm and cozy bedroom.

Fíli was still laying on his side.

Kíli frowned. His brother was usually up and awake by now, grumbling and shuffling off to relieve himself.

“Fee?” he said, stepping over and touching the older dwarf's shoulder, “... Fíli…?”

Panic surged up in him, his breathing going ragged as he rolled Fíli onto his back. His eyes were closed, lips tinged a little blue, and his skin was burning to the touch though slicked with a cold sweat. He was breathing, just, but it was shallow and rapid.

“ _Fíli_!” his voice cracked, almost a wail as he shook his brother, “ _Fee_!” He'd been fine the night before, mostly...! Just a  cold, he’d said...! He'd had a sore throat and a headache, and had taken some willow-bark tea for it and gone straight to sleep...!

The door burst open at his cry, Dwalin rushing in and all but throwing the two bowls of porridge he was carrying down onto the table, his large hands going to gently press over Fíli's forehead.

“He's burning up...” Dwalin muttered, putting his head down to lay it on the unconscious dwarf's chest, listening. Kíli pressed forwards again, breath catching in his throat.

“He's still breathing! He's still--!”

“--Hush, laddie,” Dwalin said, putting one hand on Kíli's shoulder, “hush. Let me-- ...” he drew back, his face pale. Kíli's heart was pounding, his hands shaking as Dwalin stood up and all but sprinted from the room, the bellow of his voice as he called for Óin ricocheting around the stone chambers. Kíli clutched his brother closer, tears stinging his eyes.

“Fíli...! Don't you dare, don't you _dare_...! Not like this...! _Fíli_!”

“Let him go, laddie, let me see him,” Came Óin's voice from behind him, two hands gently pulling him away from the bed. Dwalin moved Kíli aside and kept his arm securely around the youngest dwarf’s shoulders. Óin quickly stripped back the blankets and tugged up Fíli's shirt, his knife reflecting the light as he cut open the blond's dressings and rolled him onto his front, leaving the long wound on his back visible.

Dark, red lines seemed to radiate from the wound, the skin puffy and red where last night it had seemed normal. The healer pressed his fingers to both sides of Fíli's neck and hissed, leaning in to listen at his chest. He then set Fíli onto his back again and dre his hands away. Óin stood in silence for a long moment before he spoke, voice low and grave.

“... Call Thorin. He's got an infection deep in his wound, one I-- ...” his voice cracked, and he swallowed, “One I do not think I have the skills to reach.”

“What do you mean, you don't have the skills?! Óin! _Do_ something...! Wake him up, heal him...!” Kíli cried, Dwalin's hands tightening on him as he lunged forwards.

The old dwarf shook his head.

“Smaller wounds have taken stronger dwarves. Call for Lord Elrond and pray to Mahal we'll once again witness the wonders of elvish medicine,” he replied lowly. Dwalin nodded, easing Kíli down onto a chair by the fireplace and then leaving the room, barking orders to the dwarves outside.

Kíli sobbed, burying his face in his hands.

Óin started to work on placing cool cloths on Fíli's forehead and wiping the sweat from his body, propping him up and angling him to ease his shallow, weak breathing.

“Fee...” Kíli all but moaned, tears running down between his hands, “Fee, don't you dare leave me... don't you dare...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me [here on Tumblr](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), and you can find [Tex on her Tumblr here!](http://texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) If you enjoyed the fic, please consider sending her a message there, as she puts in SO much work for so little recognition. 
> 
> In this chapter there's a piece of art by the wonderful [Ruto](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/) so please check out her tumblr!
> 
> List of Khuzdul / Sindarin in order of appearance:  
> Amrâda'gâl - Deathspeech  
> Barruj Kanâg - Plaza of People  
> Lukhûdu'arisî - Lights of sparks  
> Galabi banth mukhuh tanni mudtu tutur - Sworn sword my strengthen quaking heart  
> Mukbu Gabil - Great Library  
> Amrâlimê - I love you  
> Man cerig - What are you doing  
> Hîr nín - My lord  
> Celin ’siniath o adar nín. Cân i hi danwenidh na le - I bring a message from my father. You must go to him immediately  
> I aran - The king  
> Edlennin - I have been banished  
> I aran díhena len - The king has forgiven you  
> Innor - Fireheart  
> Madhandil - Lover of mud (This word has also been conjugated by me, but using the quenya ending 'ndil' for 'lover of' as I couldn't find a sindarin equivalent)  
> Mellon nîn - My friend  
> Hannon le - Thank you  
> Guren níniatha n'i lû n'i a-govenitham - My heart shall weep until I see you again  
> Savo 'lass a lalaith - Have joy and laughter  
> Na lû e-govaned vîn - Until next we meet  
> Aran nín - My king  
> Hannon le, aran nín - Thank you, my king  
> Rukhas - Orcs  
> Remenu - To arms  
> Baruk khazad ai-menu! - The axes of the dwarves are upon you!  
> Amad - Mother


	5. Khûr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy wow I cannot even begin to thank you all for the amazing responses and support I've received regarding this fic! Each and every last kudos, bookmark, and comment really makes my day. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I'd also like to extend another massive thanks to my amazing beta [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) for all her hard work and her everlasting patience. I couldn't do this without her!
> 
> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
> 
> You can find [me on Tumblr](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), as well as [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) so please come and say hi!
> 
> Very excitingly, there's some music for this chapter! The words were written by me in English, translated into Khuzdul by [Martha](http://love-is-a-two-place-predicate.tumblr.com/), and then the music was written by Sam Hubbard and [Gina Rose](http://laer-aewen.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Also my deepest apologies for how long this chapter took to come out, I found myself two new jobs, and was preparing to start my next degree!

 

 

  _T.A 2941_

_November 4th_

 

 

 

 

Elrond pressed his fingers to Fíli's forehead and exhaled slowly. The dwarf's skin was slick with sweat and burning hot - pale and flushed all at once. His breathing was shallow and laboured, chest barely rising. Elrond drew back and peeled the covers off the prince's body, his shirt already opened wide by Óin earlier. He'd been rolled onto his side – still and unresponsive – so the larger wound on his back and the smaller on his front were both visible.

“Can you heal him?” Thorin's voice was rough and low, a tremble audible in it as it cut through the silence.

The small room was dappled golden by the low light from the fire and even more cramped than usual, Óin and Elrond on one side of the bed with Thorin, Kíli, and Bilbo on the other. Tear-tracks still glimmered on Kíli's cheeks, and Thorin's own expression was tight and gaunt.

“He has an infection,” Elrond said lowly as he trailed his fingers down the puffy skin on either side of Fíli's wound along his back, “Though it doesn't look like it from the surface. I suspect a trace of some foulness on Azog's blade is buried somewhere deep in it, something that has festered...”

He broke off with a sigh and closed his eyes, his heart heavy.

“... I am sorry I didn't see it in time.”

“In time? What do you--! No, _no_!” Kíli gasped, stumbling forwards and falling to his knees beside the bed, clutching his brother's hand as fresh tears started to roll down his cheeks. Thorin seemed to rock back on his heels, eyes widening a little and throat bobbing. Bilbo's hand flew up, knuckles pressing to his lips.

“Then... there is nothing you can do...?” Thorin rasped.

Elrond hesitated. He reached forwards to gently cup Fíli's face, leaning in close to study his features and to look at the hue of his flesh and the tinge of blue around his lips; listening to the gasp audible with every short breath. Sickness had set into them, eased and aided by the infection.

“These are mortal wounds,” Elrond sighed, “Without treatment he will die. A man with the same ailments would last another day or so at the most... Dwarves I am not so familiar with.”

“A few days, if we're lucky,” Óin muttered. Kíli let out a long groan of pain and Thorin took a faltering step back, hanging his head. Bilbo gripped the king's arm.

“Surely,” the hobbit said, his brows knitted together and his hands fists by his sides, “ _Surely_ you can do something?”

“I can reopen his wound and cut the infected flesh from him... I can drain the infected fluid from around his lungs, clean the wound, and close it once more.” Elrond looked up, silence ringing around the room before he spoke again, his voice heavy, “I cannot guarantee he will survive even the first incision. If he lives past the operation he may slip into a sleep from which he'll never wake, or die regardless.”

For a few long moments no one spoke, the fire crackling in the hearth and Fíli's laboured breathing mixing with sounds of Kíli's choking sobs.

Thorin stepped forwards again, laying one hand on the back of Kíli's head and the other over his oldest nephew's heart.

“It's his only chance...?”

“Yes,” Elrond replied softly as Óin nodded, his mouth twisted into a grimace.

“Then we will provide anything you need,” Thorin said firmly as Kíli breathed out a shaky noise of agreement, pressing his forehead to his brother's hand.

“My sons are skilled in healing and shall assist me, along with Master Óin, if he will,” Elrond said, looking to the elderly dwarf.

“Aye,” Óin sighed, “I'll scrub out a room for it and bring the silver tools.” He gave Fíli one long, final look and then strode from the bedside out into the corridor, barking orders at the guards gathered outside.

“I cannot promise any recovery... but I will do everything I can for him,” Elrond said gently. Kíli let out another shaking sob and lifted his head to press a kiss to his brother's temple.

The elf gently rolled Fíli onto his back and propped him up, drawing a small pouch from his robes and plucking a few herbs from it. When he crushed them under his fingers a sweet, tangy smell immediately filled the room. He cupped the back of the unconscious dwarf's head with his free hand, bringing the other up to hold the leaves under his nose.

“Echuio, Fíli... lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad, nadath nâ i moe cerich...” he coaxed. Silence stretched before Fíli's breathing sped up a little and he stirred with a groan.

His eyelids fluttered and opened, but they were red-rimmed, dazed, and his gaze was unfocused. Elrond gently cupped Fíli's cheeks, peering into his eyes. The young dwarf wheezed, confusion written all over his features as he started to shiver, focusing on Elrond's face.

“Fíli, you are ill. I will do my best to heal you... but if you have things to say... say them,” Elrond murmured, drawing back so Kíli and Thorin could push closer. Elrond slipped his pouch back into his robes and stepped away from the bed, speaking softly to Bilbo, “He will not be awake long. I will attempt to rouse him again before the operation, but it may not be possible.”

The hobbit nodded, his face grim and drawn as he crossed his arms, lips twisted into a thin line.

“Fee,” Kíli sobbed as he leaned in, pressing his forehead to his brother's, “Fee, please... you have to fight this...” Thorin moved quickly to the other side of the bed, clasping his trembling nephew's hand between his own.

“Madtithbirzulê...” he whispered, voice tight and shoulders hunched as he trailed his fingers through his oldest nephew's matted hair.

Fíli whined, head lolling from side to side, expression pinched with pain and upset.

“Amad...!” he breathed, sweat rolling down his face, “Amad...! Amad...” his voice cracked, eyes closing as tears started to trek down his cheeks. Elrond bowed his head and turned, slipping from the room and closing the door behind him, the sounds of Fíli's whimpers and Kíli's sobs muffled.

If young dwarf survived the operation there was no guarantee he'd wake afterwards. He might linger in the twilight of sleep until his body withered and his spirit left, or he might slip suddenly from life. But there was no real hope for him, no promise he could make to bring his kin comfort.

Fíli would most probably die, and there would be a royal funeral in Erebor after all.

 

 

 

*

_Over tea, under pain, elders converse  
Mountain's life blood's difficult to traverse_

 

 

 

Dori leaned back in his chair and rubbed his fingertips in slow, soothing circles over his temples. A headache was brewing deep in his skull and no amount of Óin's willow-bark tea or naps in dark rooms would stay its onslaught.

“You look like you've found gravel in your stew,” Balin said, the smile gracing his lips not reaching his eyes. He set down two mugs of hot herbal tea on the table beside their armchairs, “Headache...?”

“Mmn,” Dori nodded. He took a sip of the tea as Balin settled down into his own chair, “... What news of Fíli, then?” he finally asked when the comfortable silence had stretched on just too long. Balin sighed, slumping a little and brushing his hands down his beard.

“It seems we will lose him.”

The sweet tea turned bitter on his tongue. Dori set the heavy mug back down and shook his head, his limbs suddenly aching, heavy, and listless. After all the lad had been through...

“How did Óin miss a fatal infection? Was he not changing the dressings regularly?”

“Aye, he was. The infection started at the deepest point, in Lord Elrond's opinion, and was therefore easily missed. Even now the line of the wound doesn't have a strange look or smell to it. Lord Elrond believes there is fluid in the lad's lungs, too,” Balin said softly, “He means to operate.”

Pain flared up at the base of Dori's skull, the pounding inside his head growing stronger. He pressed his fingers to his temples again before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“And Fíli's chances...?”

Balin didn't reply, his silence answer enough.

“Then there's nothing we can do,” Dori sighed as he took another sip of his tea, sour now in his mouth. The terror when sickness befell a family member was something he was familiar with. Ori had had his fair share of colds, born early and never quite growing as strong as he should have, and Nori had once had both his arms broken and his ribs fractured after a nasty fight in a town of Men.

Fíli wasn't a brother by blood, but after spending over a year with him on this quest he'd felt that same warm stirring in his chest for the young princes as he did for his own brothers. For Fíli to die like this... it wasn't fair. He'd fought so hard and survived so much.

Balin's hand gently squeezing his forearm dragged him back from the dark thoughts clouding his mind. He crooked a weak smile in return and put down his tea, leaning forward.

“What we can do,” Dori nodded, “is make sure Erebor's running continues smoothly. Dáin will support Thorin during this, as will Bilbo. We can ensure the king's wishes are carried out while he mourns.”

“Aye, we can indeed. Come on then, before you get too comfortable. The harbour needs seeing to – a group has been dragging the rock out so the damage can be assessed. You know far more about structural integrity than I do,” Balin chuckled. He stood up and reached out to take Dori's hand, pulling him to his feet before patting his back.

“Hah! I shan't contest that,” Dori snorted, following the other dwarf out of their rooms and down the corridors and stairs leading to the Shulnu Gabil. Pain still knocked behind his eyes, but having something else to think about helped him ignore it. The way was still barely lit, the glass and crystal bulbs dark against the stone and the only light coming from the little lamps they'd brought with them.

They walked side by side in comfortable silence, Dori's nose wrinkling at the smell of muddy, stagnant water.

The corridor widened dramatically, leading onto a vast courtyard of granite with steps carved from the rock with patterns for grip engraved on each one – intricate scenes of life inside Erebor, some adverts for speciality shops long abandoned, and each with grooves for water to trickle down cut into them so they would stay dry – lead down to the long quays of the harbour. There was a gate cut from the rock on either side of the cavern leading into dark tunnels through which the river ran, bringing boats from the Iron Hills and the Grey Mountains in a secret, underground loop.

Vast pillars rose from the floor and the waters, but all the gold and gems that had studded them had been clawed off. Those left were blackened by dragon-fire, and many had been broken, laying in piles of rubble that rose out of the water and covered the walkways; as well as blocking the gates and destroying the boats in the docks. Dark water had risen to flood the plaza where the water side market had been, and the air smelt dense and foul.

Shafts of light from hidden windows leapt and bounced across the glimmering waters, a yellow glow to them from the torches of the twenty or so dwarves heaving piles of rock from the gates and dragging them to the sides.

“Well?” Balin asked.

Dori shook his head and crossed his arms for a moment before he pointed at several of the pillars.

“Most of these left standing are cracked. They'll need reinforcing, and we've lost some of the key load-bearing ones. There won't be a cave in with our current numbers and usage, but it'll quickly become a problem if more support isn't added.”

“Just what we need, more work,” Balin grumbled as he made some notes in the small, blank book he carried around, “Still. The waters are lowering as the gates are excavated, and the only issues we've had so far are cold, wet workers.”

A group of dwarves turned, calling out and waving up at them, Balin and Dori raising their hands in greeting.

“Masters Dori and Balin,” one called, stepping onto the quay and hurrying towards them, as fast as he could and dripping water with each step, “A word, if I may!”

His dark skin was covered by tight leathers to keep the brunt of the water out, but it was clear he was still sodden from head to toe, his hair tied up in many small braids high on the top of his head.

“Master Knǫrr,” Balin nodded as the dwarf finally reached them, huffing and puffing a little, “What news?”

“The waters are lowering,” Knǫrr said, putting his hands on his hips and nodding to himself, “but we're running out of places to stand. We need to know how to get the deep rocks out so boats can pass. We can't reach them.”

Dori fell quiet. Then he sighed, ducking his head and pressing his calloused fingers to the ache in his temples.

“We'll have to pull them out. The best swimmers should to tie harnesses around the rocks, and a group of the strongest will heave them out. Those left could rip the bottom out of laden boats,” Dori added as Knǫrr nodded, wringing some of the water out of his beard and tucking it into his clothing.

“Aye, aye. We're not quite at that stage, but I'll get word out. But the supports-- ...”

“--Yes, we've had a look,” Balin interjected pleasantly, “They'll hold for now but we'll be reinforcing them as soon as the waters are low enough and we can spare the hands.”

Knǫrr hummed out a noise, looking around at the ceiling and the pillars with a twist to his full lips.

“If you think it's safe, then it's safe,” he finally sighed, “But what about the force for Dale? I heard you're seeking to repair the town for the Lake-men. Shouldn't we be concentrating on Erebor?”

Dori stifled a heavy sigh and resisted the urge to roll his eyes, looking over to Balin. The older dwarf smiled and reached forwards to pat Knǫrr's shoulder bracingly.

“Of course, of course! But if the menfolk die, we shall have no one to tend our fields, and we shall all have very empty bellies indeed. Besides, it was our actions that brought the dragon upon them, and our party that drew the orcs to the mountain,” Balin said seriously as Knǫrr hung his head, looking suitably chastised, “We owe them our help, and they will perish long before we will without shelter, food, and basic aid.”

“Not to mention if we don't repair enough of Dale for them we might well be spending the winter with a mountain full of them,” Dori cheerfully added.

Knǫrr was nodding furiously by the end of it, harrumphing out little agreements and affirmations. He clapped his hands together and bowed.

“Say no more, say no more! I shall gather willing hands for Dale – and when another lot from the Iron Hills arrive I'll have some to spare. Until next time! Mukhuh targzu nê ta'bari bashk!” he cried as he turned from them, heading back down towards where the other dwarves were still heaving the piles of rocks and rubble away from the wide gates.

“And the same to you,” Balin replied before giving Dori a wry look, his eyebrows raised and his lips pinched, “I believe that's our cue to leave before we're asked more questions.”

“Quite,” Dori snorted, looking around the harbour one last time before leading them out and into the massive corridor that climbed its way back up through the mountain. His gaze caught over the patches of blackened stone and the deep claw marks in it, eerie reminders of what had slithered and forced its way through their home in search of treasure.

Balin's hand warm on his shoulder chased the dark brooding thoughts from his mind, leaving only the aching throb at the base of his skull.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

“Fíli...? Madtithbirzulê...?” Thorin murmured, combing his fingers through his nephew's golden hair as the younger dwarf stirred, his eyelids fluttering though he was clearly struggling to keep them open.

Kíli lurched forwards to press a fresh cold, wet cloth over Fíli's forehead and looked up to Thorin with disbelief on his face, hope kindling in his red-rimmed eyes.

Elrond hadn't been able to promise them Fíli would wake again before he operated on him, and the dwarf had been too deep in the fever earlier to respond to their calls or words - Thorin's heart twisting in his chest as his nephew had wailed and sobbed for his mother before slipping back into unconsciousness. The room had emptied until only he and Kíli were left by Fíli's bedside, wiping the sweat from his brow and dripping tiny drops of water onto his tongue and lips.

“Fee? Can you hear us...?” Kíli whispered, touching his fingers to his brother's cheek and breathing out little endearments and encouragements. Fíli groaned lowly, his expression pinching with pain.

“Hurts,” he rasped.

Thorin's chest tightened, fingers still combing through Fíli's tresses. He looked so small on the sheets, so weak, sweat-drenched from the fever still ravaging him – though a pulpy, herbal sap provided by Lord Elrond had managed to calm his delirium.

“I know,” He rumbled, holding Fíli's head up a little so his brother could lift a cup to his lips, helping him drink some of the water, “I know...”

Fíli slumped back onto the mattress with a whimper, going quiet as the the sweat on his face was tenderly wiped away. He shifted with another low whine, looking up at Thorin with wide, frightened eyes, each breath ragged, the pain of them written into his face.

“Uncle... what's wrong with me...? Am I going to-- ...?”

Thorin's breath caught, fire burning in his throat as his eyes stung. Kíli choked on a sob. It was clearly answer enough for Fíli, who started to tremble, two tears instantly trailing down his pale cheeks.

“You have a chance. You have a fighting chance,” Thorin whispered, his thumbs drying Fíli's tears as Kíli's shoulders shook and he slumped forwards to rest his head on his brother's chest, “This isn't necessarily the end madtithbirzulê. You still have a good chance.”

“It f-feels like the end,” Fíli mumbled, coughing weakly and groaning in pain. He swallowed hard, his expression so terrified and young; just how he had looked as a child after a nightmare.

“Uncle,” he rasped, reaching up to weakly clasp Thorin's wrist, “is it-- ... what's it like...? Is it-- … will it hurt...?”

Thorin closed his eyes, fighting against the agony ripping through his chest – the sheer pain of hearing those words from his beloved sister-son coupled with the ghosts of Azog, of his blade, the ice – before he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Fíli's forehead.

“No, madtithbirzulê. No, there's no pain or fear at the end. I am proud of you... more proud of you than I can put into words. My brave, clever little warrior, my little prince,” he whispered, voice fracturing as he cradled Fíli to his chest. Thorin reached out to draw Kíli into the embrace, the sobs from his youngest nephew skewering through him.

It wasn't meant to be this way.

He could feel tears welling up in his eyes but he forced them back. He had to be strong for them. There would be time to grieve later.

“Mahal's halls are glorious... there is no fear or pain or death there,” he breathed, pressing another kiss to Fíli's forehead, “You will be welcomed as a brave warrior of old, one of Durin's finest... and waiting for you will be your father, and your uncle Frerin, and your grandparents and great grandparents... your whole family there to receive you... You will feast and dance and sing, and before you know it we will be reunited.”

“Did you see them...?” Fíli choked out, his breathing tiny, gasping noises – each giving away just how much pain he was in, “Mahal's halls, everyone... you saw them...?”

No. He hadn't. He had felt cold and darkness drag him down, and for some time there had been... nothing. Nothing at all. Except-- … A vague feeling of warmth tugged deep down in his gut, a stirring of something too fragile to grasp firmly. He pushed the memory aside.

“Yes,” Thorin murmured, “I did.”

Fíli relaxed against him, the tight grip of his fingers and the shake in his body easing as he nodded. Guilt tugged at Thorin, but amrâd'agâl existed for times like these. So that when Fíli slipped away... there would be no fear in him. No regrets.

“Fee...” Kíli mumbled, “You still have a chance... you can still-- … you're strong...! You're so strong, you've always been strong, and you can't--! You can't leave me...!”

“Hush, now,” Thorin said gently, stroking his hand over the back of Kíli's head, “There is no weakness or cowardice in this.”

Fíli had fallen quiet. His breathing was shot through with pain, tiny wheezing gasps escaping his lips, and his skin was burning hot to touch again. Thorin swallowed hard and clutched him a little closer, his throat knotted shut.

“I wish... I had seen amad... one more time...” Fíli whispered, “Tell her... I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't... keep my promise, and... I love her... and you, Kee... and you, uncle...”

Kíli sobbed again, a quiet, broken noise as he pressed a kiss to his brother's cheek.

“I love you too, Fee... I'll see you again, I swear it...”

“I'm so sorry that I lead you to this,” Thorin breathed, holding his nephew tightly, “I'm sorry I fell to the madness and failed you... I have never been more proud of you, and I hold more love in me for you than I can ever say...”

Fíli didn't respond, his expression gentle but pained, and though his chest still rose and fell he had slipped back into unconsciousness.

Thorin barely had a moment to swallow past the burning coals lodged in his throat when the door opened and Elrond stepped inside, dressed in form-fitting clothing with his hair tied up in a braid around his head.

“It is time.”

“No, no, we need-- … I need-- ...” Kíli gasped out. Thorin gently laid Fíli back down onto the bed and stood, his movements soft and slow as he drew Kíli away from the bedside and wrapped his arms around him, murmuring soft encouragements as his youngest nephew sobbed and sobbed against his chest.

Elrond's two sons stepped into the chamber, their faces solemn and dressed identically to their father with a stretcher between them. They were quick but exceedingly careful in lifting Fíli's little, unconscious body onto it and bearing him from the room.

“I can offer you no promise of his survival, nor hope, but know I will do all in my power to save him,” Elrond said softly. Thorin nodded, unable to speak as he watched the elf leave and follow his sons to the medical bays inside the mountain.

The only noises breaking the silence were Kíli's sobs. Thorin ducked his head, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his nephew's head.

“Come, now. Come on, nûlukhith. We are going to find food, and water, and then we will wait outside for news. But not like this. Dry your tears, there will be time for mourning later. Not all hope is lost,” he rasped.

Kíli nodded and gulped down several deep, shaking breaths. He wiped his tears from his cheeks and let himself be lead out, Thorin keeping his arm tight around the young dwarf's shoulders. He had to be strong for Kíli. He had to put aside his own pain and grief to protect his kin, to shelter them through this storm.

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

The operating room was coated all over in silver, scrubbed spotless with hot water and soap by Elladan and Elrohir. The sleek leathers covering the little bed in the centre of the room had been washed in boiling water, and then soaked in the strongest, purest alcohol that could be brewed – as had all the clothing on the three elves and Óin.

Fíli had been unclothed and bathed in the same when the water had cooled, his hair wet and tied back in a low bun. All of their mouths and noses were covered with a little cloth mask, treated like everything else.

Elrond had fed the dwarven prince herb infused wine, strong enough to bring about a stupor that would keep any living creature unconscious no matter what pain they went through; he had been laid out on his side, breathing shallow and soft and on the brink of stopping altogether.

“Let's get on with this,” Óin muttered, “I can't stand to see him suffer anymore.”

The twins moved forwards, their hands gently holding Fíli so the healers could reach his back while allowing him to breathe easier, Óin stepping into place beside the elven lord.

They worked quickly and in grim silence, Elrond's fingers deft and sure with a tiny silver and steel knife. As he worked, Óin squeezed the handles of a small contraption attached to a bucket of alcohol – spraying the liquid into the wound to keep it as clear of blood as possible.

It didn't take long for the foul smell of infection to hit their noses, the change in Fíli's flesh obvious to even the newest healer. Without a word the twins moved the dwarf closer to the edge of the bed, Óin positioning a new, empty bucket where the bed was grooved so fluids could drain away.

Elrond drew a slow, steadying breath and pressed the blade deep inside the wound.

Fíli kept breathing.

Óin exhaled steadily, Elladan almost absent mindedly stroking the young prince's hair in a soothing manner despite his unconsciousness.

By the time Elrond had removed the infected flesh and the tiny fragment of rust at the centre of the infection, Fíli's skin was grey and cool, his chest barely moving with each slow, weak breath.

He was slipping away.

Elrohir closed his eyes, gently resting his hand over Fíli's heart as he started to murmur an old spell of healing. Some colour flushed his cheeks again, but it wasn't much.

Elrond worked quickly, sweat beading his brow, stitching up the wound again after a final check for any remains of the infection and one last wash with the clear alcohol. The twins moved to carefully prop Fíli up into a sitting position, Elladan kneeling so that the dwarf was slumped against him, chin hooked over one little shoulder as Óin lifted the prince's left arm over the other to leave his side exposed.

“Now his lung,” the elven healer muttered, making another incision into the left side of his chest and inserting a hollow needle attached to a tube of leather, the end of it dropped down into the bucket. The twins pressed their hands to Fíli's chest and stomach to urge him to draw a slow breath as fluid began to slowly drip into the container.

“He's survived the worst of it,” Óin murmured, a fierce note of pride in his voice, “The lad's strong.”

“Indeed he is,” Elrond agreed, dabbing at the incision with an alcohol soaked cloth to keep the blood from trickling down Fíli's skin, Elladan's hand gently stroking up and down the dwarf prince's back to encourage his steady – and slowly deepening – breathing. Óin cupped the dwarf's pale cheeks, checking the pulse flickering in his neck and the heat from his forehead.

“How long until the lung is drained?” Óin asked softly, resting Fíli's chin back on Elladan's shoulder, leaving his hand on the prince's shoulder.

“It depends on how much is trapped. If we drain it too quickly the lung could collapse,” Elrond replied as he used strips and strips of alcohol soaked linen and leather to hold the tube in place, his sons gently shifting Fíli to lay on his back so the lung could continue to drain. Elrohir moved to attach a leather bag to the end of the tube, wrapping more lengths of cloth and leather around the opening to bind it shut.

“He's still breathing... and he seems less likely to slip from us,” Elrohir whispered, touching his fingers over the young dwarf's face, “The fever could break... He may yet wake.”

“Always we must have hope,” Elrond nodded, going over to a basin of warm water and washing his hands, “There is nothing more I can do for him. Whether he lives or dies is out of my hands, now.”

“Let's get the lad to his room. I'd had one of the royal rooms scrubbed and prepared for him,” Óin muttered, the twins nodding and swiftly transferring Fíli onto the stretcher. They bore him out of the operating chamber, following the old dwarf and their father down the corridor.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“The lad's strong, Thorin. Strong! He'll pull through it – he's a Durin, for Durin's sake!” Dáin said firmly as he pushed a tankard of strong ale into Thorin's hands, not moving back until Thorin had taken a good gulp.

“He's a child,” Thorin muttered.

He picked at the plate of food Bilbo had dropped off earlier, no appetite for the meats or bread on the wooden plate. Not even the little wild strawberries with drops of clear honey on them tempted him.

The two dwarves were sitting opposite each other in the King's Chambers, seated on plush chairs with a fire burning between them. Several hours had passed since Elrond had taken Fíli for his operation; and news from the elf had just reached him.

Fíli had survived.

The weight of Elrond's words had sent both him and Kíli staggering, clinging to each other's arms. Bilbo had lead the younger dwarf away, murmuring little encouragements and something about having parchment and a quill, and Dáin had escorted Thorin to the King's rooms. Bilbo had brought supper not long after, but none of it could shift his despair.

Just because Fíli had survived the operation didn't mean he would wake again. It didn't mean he would talk, or smile, or laugh again. It didn't mean he would walk or run or fight or hunt again, it didn't mean-- …

“Thorin, for Mahal's sake, shut up.”

“I didn't say anything,” Thorin grumbled, glaring at his cousin and taking another gulp of ale.

“And yet I can hear your cantankerous thoughts as clear as battle drums!” Dáin exclaimed, “I know you. I know exactly what's happening in that head of yours. Oh! He's not going to wake, he'll never walk or fight ever again!” he imitated in a falsetto, Thorin's scowl deepening and deepening until he cracked and snorted out a little laugh. He put the mug down on the table between them and rubbed his hands over his face, slumping forwards.

Dáin crooked a smile and reached forwards to pat Thorin's knee bracingly.

“You thought all the same things about me when I lost this leg,” Dáin pointed out, slapping his own thigh and leaning back in his chair, “I was half the lad's age and got a foul infection – remember?”

“How could I ever forget the stench,” Thorin muttered dryly, finally chewing on a bit of salted beef. Little Dáin, not even forty years of age, white as opal and laying on ash-grey, grim sheets – his stump buzzing with flies and the smell strong enough to turn stomachs. They'd both lost the meagre contents of their own over it several times.

“They had to cut off another three inches while I was awake, medicine was so scant. And I survived! I'm walking and fighting and running – found the love of my life, and even had a son – not for lack of trying for a few more wee bairns,” he chuckled, taking a hearty bite of his bread, “Fíli'll be up in no time, trust me. He's got your strength, cousin.”

Thorin snorted into his cup again and shook his head, looking around the room as silence fell between them.

He'd only ever known it as his grandfather's, and he felt as if Thrór would burst in – boiled sugar sweets in his pockets for his grandchildren and a warm smile on his face. It was lavish, untouched by Smaug and time. Someone had dusted it and remade the bed, but a stack of half written letters still sat on the desk and the wardrobes were full of his clothes.

“... Feels like a dream, doesn't it?” Dáin said softly, “Like he's going to come in any moment, singing some song.”

“Thrór is long gone,” Thorin muttered, “As is Thráin, and Frerin... Balin told me they're still recovering the bodies of those lost in the fall of Erebor... there are no songs sung in these halls, and everything is dirtied by Smaug's lingering filth. It feels like a tomb.”

“Durin's beard, Thorin...!” Dáin groaned, kicking his cousin lightly in the shin, “You were expecting to come back to Erebor, and have it the way it was?”

“...No. I was expecting to feel like I had come home,” Thorin finally grumbled.

Dáin fell silent. He heaved a sigh, sitting forwards to gently clasp both of Thorin's knees in his broad, calloused hands.

“Do you remember what you said to me? In that filthy little tent on the slopes of Khazad-dûm, with my stump of a leg festering away, and all the medics writing me off as one for the Halls? When I told you I was never going to make it home?”

Thorin scowled and turned his head, gaze trailing over the ornate furniture in the room – over the gold and gems and wealth splashed over every surface. There was a leaden weight in his chest, in his bones, in his very soul.

“You told me,” he continued, squeezing Thorin's knees harder until his cousin met his gaze again, “that home was a place where you felt safe, and happy. Where you were with those who loved you. Those words stuck with me. You said to me, you said as long as you were with me, I was home, whether or not I made it back to any mountains. Well now I'm saying it to you. You're home, Thorin. I'm here. I've got your back.”

“Then you're a fool,” Thorin snapped, pushing himself up out of his chair and turning away from Dáin, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing around the room as something akin to panic surged up in him, “I was ready to throw away your life!”

Safe and happy.

He snatched up a paperweight, made of solid gold and studded with sapphires in intricate patterns. For the briefest of seconds he felt a tug in his gut, a flutter. He spun on his heel, flinging it into the far corner of the room, sending the object clattering and bouncing across the tiled floor.

“I was ready to throw away your life for _trinkets_! I was ready to watch you, my company, my _sister-sons_ die for _my_ treasure, I was ready to let you face elves and orcs and men alone, all for gold. I holed myself up like a rat, stuffing my pockets with gems and believing myself right...!”

Thorin's hands were shaking, sweat beading on his brow.

Safe and happy. He was neither.

Dáin should leave him. He should go back to the Iron Hills, back to his wife and son, back to his home and those worthy of his love. Those who hadn't betrayed him, or failed him.

“The sickness... Dáin, you cannot begin to understand it. It was like I was underwater – or as if I had eaten the wrong sort of mushrooms, and my mind had been cast into a maelstrom of illusion... And yet at the core of it, I believed I was right. I was just. I knew I was protecting the gold, the most important thing. I felt taller than the mountain – deeper than its depths!” He was getting louder, his body beginning to quake, “And it was mine, Dáin, it was all mine and no other's! You cannot understand,” his voice cracked, plummeting to a whisper as he shook his head.

“You cannot begin to understand how corrupted I was, how low I had sunk...”

“Are you done?” Dáin asked dryly after a brief silence, not having moved from his seat. Thorin turned to him, chest heaving.

“Did you not just hear a word I said? You should leave,” Thorin growled, “Go home. Go to those who haven't proven themselves worth nothing,” he spat.

“Aye, I heard. I'm not leaving, cousin, especially not while you're throwing such magnificent tantrums.”

“Tantrums! I am not--!”

“--You bloody well are, and you know it. Sit down,” Dáin said firmly. Thorin felt anger and bitterness rise in him like bile, his fingers curling into fists.

“I will not--!”

“ _Sit down_!” Dáin roared, loud enough several items in the room rattled and a crushing silence was left in its wake.

Thorin slowly sat down. Dáin took a deep breath.

“Mahal's balls, Thorin, you do chip my gems,” he grumbled before he fixed his cousin with a piercing glare, “You were sick. A sickness of your mind, the same one the mighty Thrór fell to. But you beat it, Thorin, you beat it. You came out and met me on the battlefield – no idea why you took all your armour off, though, you sulphur-vent – and you fought honourably. You killed Azog. You died honourably.”

Thorin swallowed, his head hanging and Dáin's words rattling around inside him like he was being shaken, “It was gold,” he mumbled, “And grandfather's.”

“I forgive you,” Dáin continued, as if Thorin hadn't spoken. “You've always been there for me. You stood by me when I took over the Iron Hills, still a bairn, and I stood by you. We've been through fire and blood together, and we're both still here.”

“But the Arkenstone – the magic-- ...”

“I don't care about the magic,” he said firmly, “If I had the choice and you were dead, I'd do it again. In a heartbeat. As would anyone else. Cousin,” he sighed, gripping Thorin's hands and squeezing them earnestly, “You are forgiven.”

“Then you all forgive too easily,” Thorin whispered, his voice tight and choked, “I would not-- ...”

“--You would,” Dáin interrupted, “You would. If it were me, or Dís, or Fíli, or Kíli, or anyone else, you'd forgive them. Don't shake your head, you forgave the halfling for stealing the Arkenstone, for Durin's sake! Of course you'd forgive, just like we have.”

“Hobbit,” was all Thorin could grumble, clinging to Dáin's hands like rope cast to him in a raging river, “Not halfling.”

Dáin fell silent. Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, almost crushing Thorin's fingers in his grip for a moment before he let go, a broad grin on his face.

“Aye! Your hobbit,” he chuckled. A curious heat suddenly burned through Thorin, all the way up to his cheeks. He frowned and knocked his foot against Dáin's iron one.

“He's not 'my' anything, he's his own creature. And if you've finished lecturing me, perhaps we can get back to discussing trade between Erebor, Dale, Mirkwood, and the Iron Hills – like we should have been.”

Dáin laughed again, winking at Thorin and shooting him a sly look. He linked his fingers together and leaned back in his chair, starting to list what his son was bringing, what could be spared for Dale, and roughly how much they could provide.

Thorin nodded along, but his mind wandered here and there, traipsing over the conversation they'd just had to Fíli, and then to Bilbo, Dáin's voice becoming a comfortable drone in the background.

 

 

 

*

_T.A 2941_

_November 5th_

 

 

 

 

Kíli slowly worked the golden comb through his brother's hair, separating out strands and braiding them together, his movements gentle and tender. They were in what had been Thráin's room, though most of the furniture had been removed and everything had been scrubbed down to leave it as clean as possible. He'd even had to wash himself and change his clothing before entering, but if it meant Fíli had a better chance of living... Well, he'd do anything.

His brother lay silent on the bed, breathing more deeply and evenly than he had in days. Fíli looked peaceful, almost. His skin was still pale and grey, dark circles under his eyes, and while his fever had broken he was cool and clammy to touch.

Elrond had said he might never wake. He might just slip away.

If he did, Kíli was going to be by his side.

He brushed Fíli's newly-made braids away from his face, pressing a kiss to his brother's forehead and resting his cheek against the other's. He drew back with a sigh and took Fíli's hand, idly tracing patterns over it.

“Amad is going to be so cross with you if you don't wake up, you know. The first thing you'll get from her in the Halls is a scolding,” he whispered.

Fíli didn't stir.

“Fee... come on, please,” he breathed, ducking his head and taking a long, shaky breath. Elrond had said he might be able to hear him. To feel his touch, to sense someone was near him. Talking, singing, touching... They could all help him. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of his brother's hand, [and began to sing in a low, soft tone.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4&index=2&list=LLPAeCUJfml8gJznKpCjrn4g)

“ _Dezeb’aban mahtarraki undu buzrâ id‘abad_  
_Baraz’aban tamhari ina tazlifîn id’khazâd_  
_Danakh’aban tanlikhi aya uzbâd id’kalmu, uzbâd id’kalmu_  
_Khagal’aban jalataglimi aya bâhazunsh id’aguh_  
_[Lai' - 'Ibinê mim tanniki azhâr dê](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari/lai-ibine-mim-kili-last-two-lines)_  
_Lai' - 'Ibinê mim tanniki azhâr dê_.”

“It's lovely,” came Bilbo's voice from over his shoulder. Kíli's heart leaped in his chest as he turned quickly in his chair to face the hobbit – who had snuck up on him with a bowl of something steaming in his hands, “What is it...?”

Kíli swallowed and faced his brother again with a slow breath, squeezing his lax hand.

“... A lullaby,” he said softly, “My mother used to sing it to us. Fíli had a music-box version, but it was lost in the Goblin tunnels when they took our packs.”

Bilbo hummed out a quiet noise and took a seat on the other side of the unconscious dwarf. He put the bowl down on the bedside table and leaned forwards to gently prop Fíli's head up a little more on the pillows.

“What are you doing...?” Kíli asked. Bilbo paused, looking down at the bed before he spoke softly.

“When my mother was coming to the end, she'd... well. She's slip into states rather like this, though she still needed to eat and drink. There's a horrible old method where you put a leather tube down the throat – but it's simply vile and I couldn't-- … I couldn't stand the thought of it, so I whittled a special spoon and made broths, and I fed her little bits that would soak into her mouth and not choke or hurt her,” he finished, showing Kíli a spoon with a long handle and a very small bowl at the end of it, crooking a little smile. It was clearly made by Bilbo, and very recently.

“It's a good idea,” Kíli nodded.

He watched as Bilbo dipped it into the broth and gently held Fíli's head still, the spoon slipping easily into his mouth. There was no coughing, no choking or dribbling, too little to spill back out or travel into his lungs.

“My own recipe,” the hobbit added, “Chicken and beef broth with plenty of herbs and vegetables, salt and some sage, a little chamomile too, and some lemon. All boiled down to a clear soup and strained to take out the bits and pieces. Now,” he said firmly, spooning in a second helping before setting the bowl down again, “Tell me about that lullaby. What did it mean?”

Kíli heaved a sigh and turned Fíli's hand over between his fingers, tracing the little scars and callouses on his skin.

“It's from a... I don't know the word in Westron, it's like a play, but with music. Most of it is music, really, unlike a musical play which has acting _and_ music.”

“Like Elbereth and the Seven Fathers?” Bilbo asked. Kíli looked up sharply, raising his eyebrows.

“How d'you know about that?”

“Oh, Thorin was telling me. It was once quite serious but now it's all about making fun of the elves, as far as I could gather,” he smiled, breathing out a little chuckle, “Something about mixing up amrod and amrol.”

“Amrâl and amrâd,” Kíli corrected absent-mindedly, “Mmn, it's... well, that one's a musical play. A play with songs. This one is mostly songs. Seven Fathers is funny, but Kamuth Id'Azghu Ibshêg'ukhzar isn't funny. It's not performed a lot in the Blue Mountains so I've never seen it,” he admitted, “But mother told us about it.”

“I'm not even going to try and pronounce that,” Bilbo laughed, “What's the title in Westron?”

Kíli thought for a moment, his nose scrunching a little as he tried to work it out, “Songs of... the war of... anger? It was a big war in the first age, where everyone fought against Gorgoroth.”

“Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed, “Oh, the War of Wrath, of course! Well! That's fascinating, because--!”

“--Ori knows a lot more about it,” Kíli quickly interrupted before Bilbo could get too involved in whatever he was going to say. He'd been on the receiving end of several of Bilbo's historical explanations; and wasn't particularly keen to suffer through another one, “I just know the lullaby is from it. When all the children are born it's sung, and then when there's the big fight scene, it's sung again. Something about those who aren't coming home.”

“Is that what it means? Doesn't sound like a very comforting lullaby to me,” Bilbo sniffed, leaning in to slip another spoonful of broth into Fíli's mouth.

Kíli huffed out a laugh and squeezed his brother's hand, “No, it means... it's about different coloured gems, and them doing things like hiding and burning, and on king's crowns and the like... And then the last two lines are 'look, my little gem comes home to me'. It's about coming home safe. Whether it's to a mountain, or the Halls, you're still coming home.”

Bilbo nodded, and the two of them fell into a comfortable silence.

By the time Bilbo had finished slowly spooning the broth between Fíli's lips the fire was burning low in the grate, and Kíli was resting his head on his brother's arm, still clinging onto his hand. He sighed heavily, closing his eyes and singing softly.

“ _[Lai' - 'Ibinê mim tanniki azhâr dê](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari/lai-ibine-mim-kili-last-two-lines)_  
_Lai' - 'Ibinê mim tanniki-- ..._.”

His voice broke, tears welling up in his eyes.

Fíli might never come home to him here. He might never wake up. He might never move, stay as still as stone, dead in every way except in body.  Amad would be devastated, and he'd have to stand beside the tomb of his brother, and be strong. He'd have to live the long years of his life without his brother, his best friend. Fíli would never meet Tauriel how Kíli wanted to introduce her, he'd never see Erebor in its glory. How could he rule, when Thorin passed? How could he live without his brother by his side?

“Azhâr dê,” came a croak from above him.

Kíli jerked upright, heart skipping a beat and mouth dropping open, Bilbo rising quickly to his feet.

Fíli cracked a small, weak smile, “I'm not going anywhere,” he breathed - weak and quiet, but alive.

Alive.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

“My thanks,” Thorin said, his voice carefully controlled and measured, “for your patience during this time. Prince Fíli has woken, and according to Master Óin and Lord Elrond he is responding well to treatment. It seems, without any further complications, he is set to recover.”

“That is good news indeed,” Bard nodded as Thranduil inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“I would also like,” Thorin continued, reciting the rehearsed words written by Balin, “to extend my thanks for your swiftness in attending this gathering.”

A low table carved from sandstone sat in the middle of the room, set above the main entrance to Erebor with wide pillars letting in plenty of light – and a cold breeze. Around the table were chairs of varying heights and depths, the floor curved around to create a slow incline and decline, so that all parties could sit around it and be at the same height. Thorin was sat opposite Thranduil and Bard with Dáin and then Balin on his right hand side, Bilbo and then Ori on his left.

To the right of Thranduil sat an elf with long, brown hair and a stern face. He had introduced himself as Feren, and had then said no more. A grim looking man sat to the left of Bard. He'd introduced himself as Aldin before promptly pulling on a second coat and scowling.

Despite the morning light flooding the room fires and torches had been lit. The room was once opulent, but Smaug had tore the gold and gems from their places. While Glóin and Bofur had worked to make the room presentable, Smaug's presence still lingered.

Thorin could feel beads of sweat rolling down his spine. His clothing for the day had once more been chosen by Balin. He needed to, apparently, dress appropriately – which meant no more simple tunics and overcoats, but the clothes worn by kings of old. With no tailors nor supplies ready, it meant relying on what had escaped the dragon's hoard.

His stomach had twisted like vipers in the pit of him as he looked over the armours and furs. Clothing of the like he had donned himself in sickness, clothing he had swaddled himself in and paraded around in. The weight of the gems and leather and metal and fur had felt comforting, as if they were grounding him.

Now they were stifling.

Clasps of silver and mithril had been set into his hair, his braids of kingship hanging down to rest over his chest – over the heavy, silver armour studded with sapphires and bound tightly to him. Every movement felt like it took too much effort, though he knew he had run and fought and walked carrying far more and in worse conditions.

Thranduil cleared his throat and Thorin started, realising his words had died out at some point and all those around the table were staring at him.

“Perhaps,” Thranduil said smoothly, “the King is not quite up to negotiations.” The elf's tone made the hair on his nape rise, a curl of anger tugging at his gut. Dáin muttered something under his breath, but from the looks shot to him by Thranduil and the other elf it wasn't inaudible to them, even if they didn't understand the words.

“You will forgive me if my mind returns to the health of my sister-son,” Thorin all but growled, the old hate for Thranduil surging up in him before he could choke it back down.

“I will present our offers to the King of Mirkwood, and the King of Dale,” Balin interrupted. He cleared his throat, brushing a gloved hand down his washed and combed beard; settling a little pair of spectacles on his nose.

The elderly dwarf drew a scroll out from his pocket. He broke the wax seal, unrolled the parchment, and cleared his throat again. Thorin pretended not to notice the way Thranduil's fingers were tapping against the table, a spark of mirth igniting in his chest.

Ori opened a parchment book and dipped his quill in the inkpot beside him, the grim faced man and Thranduil's elf doing the same on their own versions – all beginning to write as Balin spoke.

“I hereby open these negotiations between Thorin, son of Thráin, rightful King under the Mountain, King Thranduil of the Greenwood, and King Bard of Dale and the men of Esgaroth. First, we extend our welcome to our esteemed guests, and hope their stay within our glorious mountain is pleasant.”

Balin paused expectantly. Bard cleared his throat and glanced around when even Thranduil looked to him.

“It's, ah, much better without the dragon,” he offered weakly. The elven scribe and Ori paused in their writings, looking to their respective kings for a response. Bard cleared his throat again and crossed his arms, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“Our thanks,” Thranduil carried on smoothly, “for your gracious hospitality. Well met indeed are we by your kin.”

It was simply incredible how Thranduil managed to make such words feel like insects over his skin. They needled and stung, insulting despite the correct response. Thorin glanced over to Bilbo. The hobbit was looking at Thranduil curiously with an eyebrow raised and a faint smile on his face, as if he could see right through him – though what that was Thorin had no idea.

Balin nodded, turning back to his scroll.

“First, our offer to King Thranduil, of the Elves of the Greenwood. To you we first give a share of gold and other precious materials, in the form of white gems, in thanks for your aid in defence of Erebor against the armies of Bolg and Azog, in repayment for supplies and weapons, and for commiseration in regards to those of your kin who fell. May they never be forgotten.”

“They will not,” Thranduil replied. His voice was cool and even still, but an edge ran through it.

An uncomfortable silence rang through the room for a few seconds. Balin carried on, clearly having had expected some sort of gratitude.

“Quite. As for future deals... we propose to reinstate the trade routes previously held with the Greenwood.”

“I have no use for mounds of dragon-warmed, accursed gold,” Thranduil said, linking his fingers together on the stone table and leaning back in his chair, “What was offered before the dragon has lost much of its value to me.”

Thorin could feel a headache brewing at the back of his skull. The furs and armour were choking him, and sitting opposite Thranduil while quibbling over the price of vegetables was the last thing he wanted to do. His sleep had been short and fitful, nightmares and visions of the battle were mixed up with far older fights and images of the unreal – his grandfather in Azog's place, lifting the blade to drive it into his chest, face twisted with anger and hate, Bilbo tumbling down from the tower never to move or wake again, Fíli and Kíli deathly-still on the ice, their bodies pierced with more arrows than he could count...

There was a tug in his heart, a whispering to him. He shouldn't be here. He should be beside his sister-son's sickbed. He should be comforting Kíli, he should leave this to someone who knew what they were doing. Someone fit to rule, someone--.

Thorin dug his nails into the palms of his hands, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. His forehead was slicked with sweat and nausea bubbled in the pit of his stomach. The walls seemed to be closing in around him, and despite the clever design of the room he felt as if all the others present loomed over him.

“So you will not accept our gold coin,” Balin said smoothly, “Very well. Is silver more to your liking?”

“I do not seek a smattering of coins from your pockets, O King,” Thranduil laughed, his gaze flicking to rest on Thorin's face, as piercing and unsettling as it always was.

“Then what do you seek? You will be given the white gems you crave, what – if not gold – will you accept as payment?” he gritted out.

“First tell me what you wish from my realm,” the elven king smirked, “and I shall give you a fair price.”

“Shakhaka ai-targkhi,” Dáin growled lowly.

Thorin couldn't help but agree. Thranduil was being completely unreasonable – he knew what was going to be asked of him, he had signed the trade agreements with Thráin centuries past.

“We ask,” Balin replied in an airy, pleasant tone, “only to reinstate the agreements we had before the dragon.”

“And how do you plan to pay if I do not want gold fermented in evil?” Thranduil shot back, one eyebrow raised. Thorin looked over to Balin and Dáin, all three of them silent before Dáin made a gesture, Thorin and Balin nodding. Ori wrote something, but Aldin and Feren did not.

“Ingots, then,” Balin smiled, “if you will not accept the wealth already made. Same weight, same worth, but you shall have them in ingots of gold and silver for your own forging.”

“Our own forging?” Thranduil laughed, “You think we dabble in such things?”

“Yes,” Bilbo piped up, suddenly, “You do.”

All eyes fixed on him, but Bilbo didn't shrink back from the scrutiny.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt, of course,” he continued, twisting his fingers together, “except that, well. I've seen your forges. Not that I'd know a good one from a bad one, but yours were certainly in use.”

The look in Thranduil's eyes as the elf stared at Bilbo made laughter bubble in the depths of Thorin's throat – though his fingers twitched for the blade he'd had to leave outside the room.

“Ah, yes. I suppose there are no secrets to be kept when one has mice,” Thranduil murmured coldly.

“Mice!” Bilbo spluttered, Thorin half rising from his chair as anger exploded through him.

“You dare call--!”

“\--Binibzil tada kulhu a'rukh sashgamruki,” Balin barked. Thorin froze, his breathing ragged and fast, one hand a fist on the table. He slowly sat back down, gritting his teeth together so hard his jaw ached from it while delight seemed the shine in Thranduil's eyes.

“Well. Now that we have established that you _do_ have forges,” Dáin drawled, “May I kindly suggest you agree to the terms of payment. The Iron Hills will answer Erebor's generous offer and send a reoccurring payment of coal for your forges, if you'll graciously accept the ingots.”

The elf king fell quiet, his fingers tapping against the table.

“Opals,” he finally said, “Emeralds, sapphires, and rubies. As well as the ingots.”

“... As you wish,” Thorin nodded, “The contract will be drawn up. You will receive your requested white gems, your ingots, and coal from the Iron Hills – equal to what was paid to your kingdom before, plus an extra twentieth of the total added on in precious gems. Do we have an agreement?”

“Your negotiating skills have come a long way, King under the Mountain,” Thranduil smirked, inclining his head.

“The last time I bartered with you,” Thorin growled, “I was being held prisoner in your dungeons – and the time before that--”

“--Thorin,” Balin interrupted, a light tone to his voice, though his eyes were like steel. Thorin shut his mouth, fingers curling into tight fists against the stone table.

“Khurb-takhrabmî zars-tamanâl,” Dáin muttered, just loud enough Ori bit back a snort and deliberately didn't write anything down, ducking his head at the narrowed eyes of the elf and man scribe.

“We have an agreement, then,” Balin nodded, “The new treaties will be drawn up and a time for reading and signing will be agreed upon. Moving swiftly onwards... Our offer to King Bard, of the men of Esgaroth. To you we first give a share of gold and other precious materials in thanks for your aid in defence of Erebor against the armies of Bolg and Azog, in repayment of supplies and weapons, and for commiseration in regards to those of your kin who fell. May they never be forgotten. We also give to you a further share of the wealth of Erebor in reparations for the death and destruction brought upon Laketown by the dragon – and we offer you our most sincere apologies.”

Bard bowed his head, Balin's voice growing softer.

“We plan to create a memorial in the heart of Dale, with the names of all the menfolk who lost their lives. May they never be forgotten.”

“Aye,” Bard nodded, clasping his hands together on the table and taking a deep breath before meeting Balin's eyes, “Though gold will do us no good without food in our bellies and roofs over our heads.”

“Quite so, quite so. We are preparing a group of dwarves who will be working tirelessly to repair Dale, as well as the farmhouses and fields – starting from tomorrow. Your people will soon have proper shelter and there will be opportunities for generously paid employment. We will provide for each and every one of your people.”

Thorin inclined his head in agreement as Bard looked over to them, surprise clear on his face. His eyes narrowed a little.

“Kind words and promises indeed.”

“I do not expect you to believe I will keep my word when I have given you no prior reason to trust me,” Thorin said softly, a curl of shame curdling in his stomach, “But this will be done. I swear it.”

“More supplies are coming from my Iron Hills, and from the Blue Mountains. Aid will be readily given to the menfolk,” Dáin added as Bard exhaled slowly, “We will not forget your plight, nor let your people suffer any longer.”

Thranduil was silent, but Thorin caught his gaze flicking between Dáin and Bard, the glint in the elf's eyes sparking unease in his gut.

“And in return for working your fields there will be payment, like in the days of old?” the man continued.

“Yes,” Balin said, “We will maintain your buildings, your tools. Arm you, and provide the menfolk with limited access to Erebor – and better prices in the markets, as it was in Lord Girion's time. If these terms are agreeable, we will write the contracts up.”

“Where will you find the supplies? The stockrooms of Dale are empty, there are no seeds or crops to replant,” Bard pointed out, “I can't imagine Erebor has many either.”

For a long moment no one spoke, Bilbo rubbing his chin as Balin tapped his fingers against his desk. Ori cleared his throat, cheeks and ears burning pink.

“Excuse me, if you'll pardon my interruption,” he all but squeaked – quill moving across the page as he wrote down his own words, “But perhaps... perhaps we could send word to Beorn. When we took shelter in his home I noticed he had a large storeroom, and one of his sheep showed me around. He had sacks of seeds, and many different types. Perhaps we could ask him for some, for re-sowing.”

“In exchange for what? A skin-changer has no need for dwarven gold,” Thranduil scoffed.

“No, he does not, but he _did_ want my honey cake recipe, and I completely forgot to give it to him. Maybe he'll accept that in payment,” the hobbit offered after a short, contemplative silence. Thorin felt warmth twist in his stomach, a little smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“A honey cake recipe in return for seeds,” he murmured. Thorin nodded his head at Bilbo, “Then I will leave the request to you.”

Bilbo puffed his chest out, a grin on his lips, “Excellent idea! I do write a good letter, you know, and I think he quite liked me,” he added, one hand drifting to touch his pocket.

The memory of a little acorn sitting in Bilbo's palm struck Thorin.

He'd forgotten about it, in the depths of his sickness, but there had been something akin to a glow about Bilbo when he'd unfurled his fingers to show him the seed. The fog and darkness had lifted, and then... Dwalin. And the men and elves at the gate. Thorin shivered, biting down on the inside of his cheek and taking a slow breath.

Now was not the time to think of such things.

“When we have the seeds they will be provided to you. The quick restoration of the fields is very much in our best interests, as well as yours,” Balin added seriously, “Are these terms agreeable to you, King Bard?”

Bard glanced over to Thranduil, but the elven king didn't show him any expression. Bard squared his jaw and looked back to Thorin, nodding his head once.

“Aye.”

“Then we have a deal,” Balin nodded, “The contracts will be written and delivered, and we will meet again for the signings.”

“And the aid for us?” the man asked.

“The work will begin tomorrow morning. Tonight we will prepare food and have it brought from Erebor to feed those in Dale. We will also provide more wood and coal for your fires, and more medicine for those who are sick. As for the gold, we will have a sum brought to you in secrecy so you may distribute it among your people as you see fit,” the older dwarf continued, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

“You fear the menfolk will forgo reason in the face of wealth,” Thranduil drawled, flicking a speck of something from the table before fixing Thorin with a stare cold enough to freeze the blood in his veins, “You think them too like yourself.”

Thorin swallowed, the room seeming to tilt and spin around him. He gripped the edges of the table. Sickness crashed through him, sweat once more beading over his skin. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.

It was true, after all. In the face of wealth he'd lost his mind. He'd been ready to take the life of any of his company who'd stood in his way – he'd almost thrown Bilbo from the ramparts, almost killed him with his own hands; hadn't he done the same with Fíli, and Kíli? The former clinging to life while some dark force had brought him back.

And all for what? So he could fall again? So he could-- …

“--Then you must think very highly of the men from Esgaroth,” Bilbo said, his voice sweet but with a cool edge running through it, “As indeed you should! In my opinion – not that I have met many men – they have borne and faced great loss and hardship, they have suffered at the hands of others, found themselves without help or aid from those who had promised it,” the hobbit continued, ticking things off on his fingers as Thranduil's face melted into a small scowl at his words.

“But they endure. Dragonfire, starvation, homelessness, war, and sickness. I can't imagine there are many who could go through all of _that_ and still be fighting. Goodness, I'd have given up long ago!”

Silence echoed throughout the room, all eyes fixed on Bilbo who simply crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. Thorin's heart was pounding in his chest and once again he struck speechless, caught between laughter and something frighteningly close to panic.

“As the lad says,” Dáin finally nodded, banging his fist on the table, “Your men are some of the finest, and we will not let them want or suffer.”

“Thank you,” Bard inclined his head and clasped his hands together on the table, looking around at those gathered, “If that is all, I will take my leave and return to Dale.”

“Of course,” Balin smiled, “And we will send you with a wagon of wood, coal, food, and medicine, if you will but wait for it to be loaded.”

“Aye, I will,” the man agreed. He stood up and gestured for his companion to do the same, crossing his arms. As Balin left to gather an escort for the men Bard turned to Thorin, the hard edge to his stare softened a little.

“You have brought upon us the worst tragedies our people have suffered. More lay dead in the lake or in the tombs of Dale than are left living. I hope you will keep your word. You seem now more like the dwarf I met on the banks of the Running River, and he I trusted – even if I thought him foolish.”

It took Thorin a second to recognise Bard's words for what they were. Forgiveness. Acceptance of his mistakes, and the opportunity to be the dwarf he should have been.

“The King will provide,” Thorin nodded, though he felt hollowed out and as if his organs were knocking about in an empty chamber, set to crumble at any second.

“I will hold you to it, King under the Mountain,” Bard replied. He strode from the room once Balin had announced his escort, followed by his companion.

Thranduil watched Bard leave before he slowly rose to his feet, eyes sliding back over to Bilbo.

“It seems you are more agreeable now with good council on your side, O King,” the elf said, raising his eyebrows.

“A pity then you have yet to find some for yourself,” Thorin growled back. He felt exhausted, like a wet cloth wrung dry. All he wanted to do was shuck his stifling clothing and take up his place beside Fíli's bed, where he should be.

“Such blind loyalty is something not often found. But here is Bilbo the Magnificent, as clear as a reflection in a still lake. I wonder,” Thranduil murmured, taking a step around the table towards the hobbit, “how it was you managed to sneak around my Kingdom for such a long time, so quiet, so unseen.”

Thorin watched the bob of Bilbo's throat, and the way his hand came up to press over the pocket of his waistcoat.

“Hobbits. We're, ah... very light on our feet, you know, excellent burglar material, really, yes,” he stuttered.

“And yet there is something about you,” the elven king all but whispered. Bilbo's face drained of colour, a peculiar stillness laying over his features suddenly. Before Thorin could open his mouth Dáin leapt to his feet and slapped his hand down onto the table.

“Enough! There is much about the halfling--”

“--Hobbit--” Bilbo mumbled.

“--You don't know, and none of it is cause for concern or suspicion – least of all from you! Now be off, unless there is more trade you wish to discuss with my kin!”

Thranduil drew back like a serpent, fixing them all with a hard, cold glare. Then he smirked and breathed out a little laugh, whispering something to the other elf and inclining his head towards Thorin. Both swept from the room, leaving silence in their wake.

“Inbul-hibir fundhamâd-ublag,” Dáin snarled, sending a few choice words in Iglishmêk after them with his hands.

Though his stomach felt ready to turn Thorin huffed out a laugh and rested his elbows on the table, rubbing his numb fingers over his face.

“As far as I'm concerned, that was an overwhelming success,” Balin chuckled, gathering his remaining notes and tucking them into various pockets, “I have never been part of such a calm negotiation.”

“That was _calm_?” Bilbo exclaimed, moving to stand as the rest of the dwarves did. Dáin laughed, slapping the hobbit's back hard enough to send him staggering.

“Oh, aye! I remember one negotiation where Thrór declared open war on Mirkwood and then threw an inkpot at my father, ruining his splendid outfit.”

“Dwarves...!” Bilbo sighed, drawing another soft laugh from Thorin.

Dáin clapped his hands together, leading them from the room, “And now time for a drink, and some food!” he grinned, “What say you, cousin?”

Thorin shook his head, “I've eaten and drank my fill. There are other things I must attend to. My sister-son... I wish to spend time by his side first.”

“Good idea. I'll bring you some lunch,” Bilbo interjected cheerfully, clasping his hands behind his back, “And some for Kíli, of course.” Thorin nodded and turned, walking back towards his own chambers.

He needed a little time to himself, a little peace and quiet to think and change his clothing. To forget the words from Thranduil still rolling around in his head, to wipe the cold, sticky sweat from his skin, still his lurching stomach, and calm his still pounding heart. He needed to gather himself, build his crumbling walls back up.

He needed to be strong.

 

 

*

_T.A 2941_

_November 6th_

 

 

 

 

“Ori?” Dwalin called, lifting his lamp a little higher and shouldering his pack, “You in here, lad?”

The gloom of the Library seemed to press in around him in all its oppressive and dreary glory. It somehow felt like a tomb to him, like so much of the mountain still did. But here, among the dusty, forgotten tomes, he felt small and insignificant – and as if he could wander in and never wander back without anyone knowing.

“Over here!” came a call from somewhere to his left.

Dwalin turned, striding towards the source of the noise. As he rounded a corner the soft glow of firelight caught his eyes, and a moment later he was standing in a little alcove scooped out from the wall where a fire crackled merrily in the grate, and Ori was sitting on a low, comfortable looking chair.

“You cleaned this bit up nicely,” Dwalin nodded, putting his lamp down on the mantelpiece and lowering himself to sit on the chair opposite Ori, grunting as he sank into it. He put his pack down by his feet – an essential part of travelling within Erebor until more had been fixed and made habitable.

The younger dwarf breathed out a pleased sounding laugh and leaned forward, drawing back a cloth to reveal a special stone container.

“You found an abantumun'arsur!” Dwalin exclaimed, “We could have done with a few more of those on the quest.”

“I thought the same myself many times,” Ori smiled. He opened up the tall, cylindrical container and poured out two steaming cups of tea into mugs before screwing the lid back on. The tea inside would keep warm for hours, and though the fire was providing a pleasant amount of warmth Dwalin was glad to feel the heat of the mug and take a sip of the sweetened liquid.

He settled back more comfortably on his chair, glancing around the little alcove again. He had never really been one for the library in his youth, but he'd been dragged in often enough by his big brother when he was a wee lad so Balin could read while he was minded.

Alcoves like this he remembered always being warm and well lit, quiet and peaceful. He'd never truly understood the appeal of sitting in one for countless hours, but short periods of time were manageable.

“Did you want me to meet you here for tea, laddie, or was there something else you wanted to speak to me about?” he finally asked, his curiosity getting too strong as Ori sipped at his own tea and didn't quite meet his eyes.

“No, I-- … Well, it... I feel rather silly now, to be honest with you,” Ori sighed, putting his cup down, “I was thinking... I was thinking about what you said. About your parents. About how you... You only wish for your mother's recipe book, and your father's love letters back.”

Dwalin slowly nodded his head, crushing down a little furl of embarrassment at the memory of the other having seen such a private moment. There was no shame in grieving, no evil in tears, but it hadn't been something he'd been planning on sharing with anyone else.

“So I thought... You could tell me about them,” Ori continued, “About how they met, what they were like. I'll write it down into a book, and then we could put it on the shelves here, so everyone could read about them. Their memory would be forever preserved.”

The young dwarf twisted his fingers together before picking at the woollen loops of his knitted jumper, the red hue on his cheeks clear even in the firelight.

A written record of his family...

“Aye,” Dwalin murmured, taking another sip of his tea, “I'm not much of a storyteller – Balin would be better for it, but... aye. I'd like that.”

“You're a great storyteller, but I'll ask Mister Balin too, if he's agreeable,” the young dwarf nodded, perking up considerably and reaching for a pile of papers and his quill, “Just to make sure all the facts and dates match. Of course I'll give you a rough copy to read before I write it up,” he added, “Why don't we start with their names...?”

Dwalin grunted out a noise and shifted to get more comfortable on the chair. He took another gulp of his tea and cleared his throat.

“Ragna and Fundin. She was born in 2640 of the Third Age, and he was born in the year 2662.” His voice had come out surprisingly soft, even to himself. Dwalin cleared his throat again, rubbing his heavy hand over his face.

“So... she was twenty-two years older than him...?” Ori asked, his quill scratching across the parchment.

“Aye, and she never let him forget it,” Dwalin chuckled, “She was Captain of the King's guard – personal bodyguard to King Thráin II. Hardest, toughest dwarf you'd ever meet. She once took down two hundred and three orcs in a wee skirmish on the path through Misty Mountains. Kept a tooth from every one and had a smith set them in her shield. She passed her hammers down to me.”

Ori looked up in surprise, “Those were your mother's...?”

A log popped and crackled on the fire, drawing Dwalin's attention away from the young dwarf. He leaned forward, prodding the log back into the flames with the poker hanging by the grate.

“They were,” he finally nodded, “She gave them to me when I turned twenty. Thorin was fourteen – that's when the royal bairns are expected to walk along by themselves rather than in their mother's arms – and I had been given the honour of Prince's guard. Dís was born the same year.”

Ori nodded excitedly as he made a few hasty notes, “Of course, of course... So you followed in your mother's footsteps?”

“Aye. She was a warrior through and through. My father worked as an ubharu'abanî. Balin would spend hours with him, watching him grind and mix these wee bits of powder together,” he snorted, shaking his head, “I couldn't stand it. Bored me out of my skull. Don't think he ever really knew what to do with me, Balin was much more like him.”

He paused to take another gulp of the warm tea, shifting in his chair again. It had been decades since he'd last spoken about his parents to anyone. Balin had tried, Mahal how he'd tried. After the fall of Erebor, after Azanulbizar...

“I was more like her,” he finally said, sitting forward in his chair to wrap his thick fingers around his mug, “I was hitting things before I could walk. She-- ...” he swallowed, voice grinding to a halt in his throat.

“It's alright,” Ori murmured, leaning forward to flutter his fingertips over the back of Dwalin's hand, “If you don't want to talk about it you don't have to.”

Dwalin took a steadying breath. There was no shame in pain.

“She taught me everything I know. She was strong, but she was kind. Loyal to Thráin, to the line of Kings. She was one of Erebor's finest – taught me everything I believe in. She lead the final charge against Smaug after dragging Thráin to safety – she went back into the mountain to face the beast. She told me not to follow her,” he muttered, a bitter laugh to his voice, “But I did, of course. I saw what the foul creature did to her. The best armour and weapons in the mountain can't withstand dragon-fire.”

“I'm so sorry,” Ori breathed, his quill still on the paper and a blot of ink growing in size as it leaked and stretched across the surface.

Another log settled in the fire.

Dwalin took the time to compose himself, swallowing past the feeling of daggers lodged in his throat.

“No, laddie, she died exactly how she'd have wanted to. Fighting to protect her King, her home, her family. She died an honourable death. I'd be proud to follow in her footsteps.”

The younger dwarf bit his lip and started to write once more.

“And your father?”

“He was beside himself. We were homeless, beggars in our own land. Balin and I were just of age, lads still, but he bore the weight of his grief silently to spare us from his own troubles,” Dwalin shifted, sighing out a noise, “He did the best he could. He was no fighter; had a head for rock-powders, history, and poetry. He died in Azanulbizar – died fighting the bastard orc that killed Prince Frerin. Died honourably,” Dwalin nodded, “The both of them.”

His fingers twitched with the ghostly weight of his father's body in his hands, chest burning from the old pain. When the smoke and screams had cleared and he'd looked around the bloody, broken rocks of the battlefield terror had struck him.

He had been alone. Alone in the death and gore of war.

Then Balin had appeared, dragging himself out from behind a rock with blood on his face, and they'd held each other and wept until Dwalin couldn't spill another tear. He'd been the one to find his father's broken sword, and then his silent, cooling body – and by Mahal he'd fallen to the earth and wept and wept until the thought of ever getting back up seemed impossible.

Dwalin cleared his throat again, putting his mug down and rubbing his hands over his face with a grunt. Died honourably didn't mean their deaths were easy to accept.

“My father spent twenty years trying to convince my mother to marry him. He said she thought she was too old, too focused on her duty to the king. I think--... I think she knew she'd go to war one day and wouldn't come back, and it would break his heart. She always said there was no shame in growing old, but no great value to it either.”

“I'm not sure I'd agree with that,” Ori mumbled. A frown twisted his young face as he dutifully wrote. Dwalin snorted, leaning in to clasp Ori's knee for a second. He'd say Ori was too young to understand, but it would be insulting to the lad. He'd been through poverty and war and hardship, he'd seen and faced the horrors of battle as a brave warrior.

“You don't have to. Just her way of seeing things, laddie.”

The young dwarf crooked a little smile and nodded his head, taking a sip of his tea.

“So how did he finally convince her to marry him?”

“He wrote her a letter every day for ten years. Love poems, drawings, bits of history or whatever he was studying... and then after ten years he told her she was his One, but if she told him to stop writing her letters, he would. He'd leave her be and stop chasing her.”

“But she didn't-- … she didn't tell him to stop, did she?” Ori asked, leaning forward in his chair. Dwalin huffed out a laugh and shook his head, crossing his arms.

“She told him he was an idiot, but aye. She married him. She loved him something fierce, she did, and he loved her. He could make her laugh over anything,” Dwalin added almost to himself.

He sighed and shook his head, gulping of his tea and then pouring a second helping for the both of them.

“You said she had a book of recipes?” Ori prompted, wetting his quill in fresh ink.

“Aye, she was a fine cook. He was hopeless – it was a miserable day as a bairn if my father had cooked,” Dwalin chuckled, “But her stews were good enough for the king. Slabs of beef with fried potatoes, her own brewed beer, and her pipe puffing blue smoke... She was-- … Aye. She was a fine dwarf,” he finished, clasping his hands together for a long moment and bowing his head.

Balin would be so put out he'd spilled himself like a worn gravel-sack in front of Ori rather than him, but his older brother always wanted to give advice. He always had some words, a suggestion, a _solution_ , and Dwalin rarely wanted any of those.

If he felt like fighting, he fought. If he felt like eating, he ate. If he felt like laughing, he laughed, and if he felt like weeping... he wept. There were no solutions or fixes for some things, no matter how much Balin thought there was, but Ori...

Ori listened. He wasn't offering advice or opinions, he was just listening, and writing. There was no pity in him – and he wasn't searching for weapons and words to turn against him.

“You're a good lad, Ori,” he said suddenly, leaning forwards to pat the other's knee again, “A fine dwarf, too.”

Ori turned bright pink – something he was prone to and had been teased mercilessly about by Fíli and Kíli during the quest.

“I--! Well...! I--...!” he spluttered, clutching the quill and parchment to his chest before he cleared his throat and shook his head quickly, “You're talking nonsense. A-Anyway, tell me more about your parents, or before we know it Dori will have found me and I'll be dragged into helping him.”

Dwalin laughed loudly and flopped back in his chair, scratching at his head as he thought of more things to say.

“Did I ever tell you the tale of Balin accidentally kidnapping Princess Dís and Prince Frerin when he was a young lad, Frerin barely walking, and how my mother was the one who found them all?”

“No...! But please do,” Ori gasped, instantly caught up in the story. This was easier, somehow. More like the long evenings he'd spent telling Ori of Erebor, the Blue Mountains, and his travels – more familiar, more as it had been on the road.

He was almost surprised to realise he'd missed it, but they had a few hours now with no one looking for them and no pressing matters for them to attend to. He could afford this little pocket of time to himself – to have the memories of his parents put into words. It was honouring their memory, and he felt ready to face it.

 

 

*

 

 

 

Dís dragged the heavy, silver comb through her hair until it hung in sleek, thick waves down her back. She separated the strands and weaved them into a circlet around her brow, clasping it in place with a single golden bead. Seated on a low, folding stool in a small tent with grass under her feet she let her fingers trail over the intricate pattern of the braid.

It was a braid of mourning, one she'd worn ever since news of her brother's passing had reached her.

Thorin was gone. Brave, sweet, stubborn Thorin – but as she watched him ride off in the early morning fog with her two sweet sons somehow she'd known they wouldn't all come back. There was some curse on the line of Durin. Even if they had all made it to Erebor there had still been the dragon, and the damned gold.

Her brother had been strong, but he'd had this brittle edge running through him. Desperate and... sad. He'd been sad and weary for so long, and she'd seen how much weight he'd carried all his life.

Dís exhaled slowly, combing her beard and putting in the braids of royalty, her clasps silver and studded with gems. Mail went on next – sitting over her dress – and then her leathers and furs. Finally she set a small diadem on top of her head and strapped her mace to her back, striding out from her tent.

The sun was rising over the land in pinks and yellows – the Misty Mountains just a few days walk ahead of them. They were so close, but still so far.

“My lady Dís,” came a voice from her left. She turned, nodding at the dwarf who came trotting up to her with a raven perched on his head, “A raven!”

“Yes, Master Halta,” she replied dryly, “I can see.”

“A letter!” He continued, “From Erebor! For you.” He pulled out a sealed scroll from his overcoat and held it out to her with a deep bow.

“Thank you, Master Halta. And thank you,” she added to the raven. It looked at her with one beady eye for a long moment. Then it ducked its head in a bow and leapt into the air, climbing rapidly before gliding in lazy circles around the caravan.

Dís broke the seal and unfurled the parchment, a furrow between her strong eyebrows appearing as she read.

 

_To the lady Dís, Crown Princess of Erebor,_

_Thorin II lives. How will be explained when you arrive in Erebor, but know that he lives, and for all intents and purposes, he is well._

_Fíli however is not faring well. Infection has set in deep in his wounds, and we may lose him._

_I implore you to make haste,_

_Faithfully,_

_Balin._

 

 

The parchment fluttered from her fingers down onto the ground as Dís staggered and choked out a short, broken noise. Thorin alive – and Fíli dying...? It didn't make sense. How could it be!?

“My lady...!” Halta exclaimed, gently gripping her shoulder, “What in Mahal's name is wrong?”

“Thorin lives,” she breathed, “But Fíli-- … I must have a pony, and a few to ride with me. We must go on ahead, we must reach Erebor...!”

Halta was silent for a second before he nodded his head and dashed back into the camp, calling out orders. She stooped to pick up the parchment and read the words once more before she turned to the Misty Mountains with a pounding heart and tears in her eyes.

“Wait for me, madtithbirzulê...” she whispered, pain shocking through her. She couldn't lose him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find [me on Tumblr](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), as well as [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com). If you enjoyed the fic, please consider sending her a message there, as she puts in SO much work for so little recognition.
> 
> [Youtube video of 'Ibinê Mim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4).  
> [Azhâr's soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari).
> 
>  
> 
> List of Khuzdul / Sindarin in order of appearance:  
> Echuio... lasto beth nîn, tolo dan nan galad, nadath nâ i moe cerich - Awaken... hear my voice, come back to the light, there is still much you have yet to do  
> Madtithbirzulê - My little golden heart  
> Amad - mother  
> Shulnu Gabil - Great Harbour  
> Mukhuh targzu nê ta'bari bashk - May your beard never grow thin  
> Amrâd'agâl - Deathspeech  
> Nûlukhith - Little Moon  
> Amrâl - Love  
> Amrâd - Death  
> Kamuth Id'Azghu Ibshêg'ukhzar - Songs of the War of Wrath, a battle fought in the First Age where all united against Sauron  
> Shakhaka ai-targkhi - He spits on one's beard  
> Binibzil tada kulhu a'rukh sashgamruki - Avoid that which will require an apology  
> Khurb-takhrabmî zars-tamanâl - Horse-riding tree-dweller  
> Inbul-hibir fundhamâd-ublag - Pointy-eared lembas-muncher  
> Abantumun'arsur - Thermos  
> Ubharu'abanî - Chemist, or 'learner of elements of stones'


	6. Mahirsêr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the fantastic support you've given, I really don't have words for how grateful I am you're enjoying the story so far! Please make sure to go back a few chapters to check out the amazing art by [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com) and [Quel](http://www.tosquinha.tumblr.com)!
> 
> In other exciting news I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome a new beta onto this behemoth! Welcome, [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com) to the team!
> 
> And to my two betas who put in a simply unbelievable amount of work, [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com) and [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com), I really couldn't do any of this without your help. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
> 
> The poetry before sections is the work of [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com), and all credit for them should go to her.
> 
>  
> 
> [Please come say hi to me on Tumblr!](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)

 

_T.A 2941_

_7th November_

 

_Opaque messages hide on shadowed roads_

_One cracked with fear, the other where hope bodes_

 

 

 

Grass brushed against the undersides of Thorin's bare feet. His body was bathed in light unlike any he'd seen before, a thick fog of silver and gold entwined. It was heavy and warm over him – utterly overwhelming his senses. He could hear wind rustling through flora, flashes of yellow and dark-green in the mottled pattern of dancing leaves slipping in and out of the shimmering haze.

 

_Amatúlie._

 

Thorin turned, lifting an arm to shield his eyes from the figure looming over him. It seemed to burn brighter than the very sun, a tremble running through him as it held out its hand to him.

 

_Áva sorya._

 

Every breath he drew was sweet, but at the same time it burned his throat and nose, and his eyes stung. He opened his mouth to reply.

“Uncle...?”

The light disappeared like flash-flame and darkness swept in, a chill rushing through him as he jerked upright with a grunt.

Asleep?

He'd been asleep. The room was dark, the fire in the grate just glowing embers. Kíli stood in the doorway with a tray balanced on one hand and a lamp dangling from the other.

“Uncle, are you alright...?” he whispered, hesitating by the door. Thorin grunted out an affirmative noise and shifted his aching body to sit up straight in the armchair he'd fallen asleep in.

“Fine, Kíli.” He rubbed his hands over his face and turned his head, looking at the still shape of his oldest nephew, asleep in his bed with his golden hair laying against the pillow in waves. For a moment Thorin watched the rise and fall of Fíli's chest before he glanced back to Kíli with a frown, the young dwarf still in the doorway.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing!” Kíli replied quickly, seeming to jerk out of whatever stupor he'd been struck by, “Nothing, it's just... you were talking in your sleep.”

“Hardly a cause for concern, I'm sure,” Thorin grumbled. He pushed himself to stand and picked up a few logs from the basket by the grate, placing them carefully on the coals so they'd quickly catch alight.

“Well, no, but... I think you were speaking in Elvish. Or--... It wasn't anything I've heard before,” he continued quickly, walking past Thorin to set the tray down onto the side table by Fíli's bed.

Thorin froze, one hand gripping the mantelpiece. His heart started to pound against his ribs, and sweat began to slick his body.

“I--... I was speaking in tongues...?” he rasped, turning to face Kíli.

“It sounded... It sounded almost like Elvish to me,” the young dwarf replied, biting his lip and clasping his hands behind him, “Perhaps you picked some up in Thranduil's dungeon, and said it in your sleep like amad repeats conversations,” he added hopefully.

“Perhaps,” Thorin whispered, shifting so he was no longer facing his nephew.

Had the Enemy not come before the Noldor and poisoned them with words spoken in some ancient form of Elvish...? Had he not once been one of the most fair creatures to walk Middle Earth, wreathed in light? Annatar, Bringer of Gifts? Set in burning flame?

Had he not faced a figure in his dream, one burning too bright to see while mists of gold enveloped him?

Nausea violently twisted his gut. Even now the memories of the dream were slipping away like fine sand through his fingers, until all he had left was a vague feeling of warmth and the sense of a shifting veil of light.

“Fíli...? Wake up, Fee... Óin says you're to drink this broth.”

Kíli's soft voice cut through the raging storm of fear in his breast.

He looked over, some of the tension and terror slipping from his shoulders. Kíli was gently brushing strands of his brother's hair away from his face and propping him up on the pillows, every movement gentle and tender as Fíli grumbled softly. He was still so pale, still gaunt and hollowed looking, but there were spots of colour on his cheeks; the small smile he shot his younger brother gave Thorin the strength to push away from the mantelpiece and walk over to sit on the other side of his bed.

“Madtithbirzulê...” Thorin whispered, letting his own fingers trail across Fíli's golden hair.

When he'd arrived after the negotiations yesterday, Fíli had been asleep and he had been loathe to wake his sister-son, content to sit by his bedside and watch over him. He'd been called away in the evening to oversee the sending of supplies to Dale – though he had declined Balin's suggestion of visiting the city with the provisions.

A letter had been sent in his stead, wishing the menfolk well and promising more aid, as well as apologies for his absence as he was by his sick sister-son's bedside.

By the time he'd made it back to Fíli's room his nephew had woken, been fed and seen to, and had fallen asleep once more. Disappointment had soured him for a while, but he'd settled into the armchair beside the fire and found relief in the quiet warmth.

Óin had appeared, staying for an hour or so and talking in a low voice of Fíli's progress and probable full recovery. Then he’d settled a large mug of chamomile tea beside the armchair with strict instructions for it to be drunk, leaving Thorin in the quiet of the room.

Bofur had stopped by not too long after, explaining how he'd been helping Óin and felt some way responsible for the signs of Fíli's infection being missed, and how he just wanted to see with his own eyes the prince's recovery. Thorin had bid him to stay a while, listening as Bofur talked about his memories of Erebor before Smaug – how much had changed and how much hadn't, how he and Ori and Dori had been working in the housing districts.

He'd listened to Bofur's reports of clearing items from houses where whole families had been lost, cataloguing what belonged to families still living and which homes were destroyed beyond repair.

The conversation - so like the ones they’d shared on the quest - left him grounded, and as Bofur said his goodbyes and disappeared to bed a peaceful air lingered in the room.

The tea had been warm in his hands, and some of the agonizing weight crushing his chest and throat had eased. It was easy to see how he could have nodded off in the chair after finishing his drink, and slept through until morning.

But the speaking in tongues, the dream--...

“Uncle,” Fíli rasped, voice as thick as gravel, “You're here...”

“As I have been for many an hour,” Thorin answered, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He pushed further thoughts from his mind and helped manoeuvre Fíli into a more upright position, “I've been watching over you.”

“It's not true, he's been sleeping in the chair,” Kíli whispered loudly, bringing the soft huff of a laugh from his older brother. Thorin reached over to ruffle his youngest sister-son's hair, not drawing the same indignant squeal from his childhood but eliciting a grumble nevertheless as his nephew batted at him.

Kíli smoothed his hair back down and took Fíli's hand.

“I'm needed in Dale today,” he sighed, “Balin _insists_ a Durin has to be watching and helping in the rebuilding, so I've said I'll go along – I wish you could see the outfit Balin wants to put me in! I don't know how I'm going to walk, let alone build things – not to mention I don't have a clue _how_ to make repairs! I wish you could come too, but I suppose I'll have to just embarrass the line of Durin single-handedly,” Kíli moaned.

The smile on Fíli's face was the best remedy for all his aches and pains – mental and physical. His family was worth more than anything, more than any gems or gold.

How had he forgotten that?

“You'll do fine,” Fíli croaked, “Go and stop making me laugh... Hurts too much.”

“Sorry,” Kíli grinned, leaning down to press his forehead against his brother's. He drew back, gesturing to the bowls on the tray, “Broth for the both of you – Óin's strictest orders!”

Thorin raised his hand as his youngest nephew waved at them, leaving the room almost at a jog.

“Here,” he murmured, reaching across Fíli to pick up one of the bowls and a spoon, “Let me help you, madtithbirzulê.”

He held a spoonful of the broth to the young dwarf's lips, helping him drink it down.

“You haven't called me that in decades,” Fíli said softly after swallowing the mouthful, a rasp clinging to his tone. Thorin lifted another helping to his nephew's mouth.

“There are many things I haven't done in decades that I should have done,” he whispered, “I am only glad I may now have another chance.”

Quiet fell between them, both concentrating simply on feeding and being fed without incident. Before long the broth was finished and Thorin eased Fíli back to lay down in the bed once more. He picked up a silver comb sitting on the bedside table and started to ease the tangles and knots from his nephew's hair.

“I had forgotten you,” Thorin finally admitted.

Above it all, he'd forgotten to see Fíli as the dwarf he was. He'd been concentrating only on the lad's status as a prince, a soldier, an heir to what had felt like a mythical throne at times. So desperate to train and rear Fíli for Erebor and for ruling, he'd stopped seeing the dwarf he was.

“I had forgotten to care for you, provide for you. I looked at you and saw what I wanted you to be.”

“You needed me to--” Fíli frowned, but Thorin interrupted him.

“--No. I wanted. Erebor isn't your home, madtithbirzulê. It's mine. It will become your home, in time,” he conceded as Fíli frowned at him, “But I expected you to sacrifice your life and your own dreams. I almost lost you. You nearly died,” he breathed, fingers and comb stilling in his nephew's hair.

“Uncle,” Fíli sighed, reaching up with trembling fingers to gently grip Thorin's wrist, “I wanted to be that dwarf... I wanted...” he broke off with a sigh, hand falling back to his side.

Thorin leaned in and pressed his forehead against his nephew's. He understood. Brave, loyal Fíli had wanted to make him proud – had wanted to live up to an image of someone else's creation. He knew the feeling all too well.

“I am more proud of you than there are ways to say in any language I know,” he smiled, “And one day you will be a king fair and mighty enough to rival Durin himself.”

His nephew breathed out a little laugh, closing his eyes as Thorin began to comb through his hair again, “What if I don't want to be king...?” he asked. Thorin swallowed, a frown touching his lips.

“If you don't want to be king...” he repeated slowly. If Fíli wasn't king, who would rule in his stead? Kíli? Dáin, or his son Thorin Stonehelm? “If you do not want to be king,” he said again, “then... I will support your decision.”

Fíli's eyes flew open, his expression surprised, it quickly melting into something warm and amused. He nodded, patting Thorin's hand with his own.

“It won't come to that. I'll have a fine example of a king to follow,” he whispered, yawning deep enough to make him wince in pain afterwards. Thorin smiled, sweeping his sister-son's hair into a loose braid. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, tucking the blankets up around him.

“Sleep, madtithbirzulê. You'll be busy beyond measure before you can blink. Rest while you can.”

The younger dwarf nodded, crooking another little smile up at him.

“Uncle,” he whispered as Thorin stood up, “... Thank you. For your words, for... everything. I love you, as I've always done.”

“And I you,” Thorin exhaled, warmth exploding through his chest, the aches and pains tangled up and down his spine loosening and relaxing, “And I you.”

 

 

 

*

_Negotiations pull an arrow back_

_Its potential is given little slack_

 

 

 

“If you find these terms agreeable then let us sign the contracts,” Thranduil smiled, gesturing to the two identical scrolls laid out on the wooden table. Small stones held the corners down, stopping them from curling up again. It was early in the afternoon and the cold light of November cut like a knife through the little room in Bard’s residence.

Dale was pitiful. A wreck of stone - twisted and destroyed - every wall broken, charred, or bloodstained. Sickness had crept in among the menfolk, and while his medicines from the Greenwood and Elrond's from Imladris had helped stem the inevitable passing of the menfolk, not all could be saved. The stench of sickness and death clung to the air, a mist strong enough to make even Thranduil's stomach twist.

Bard wore the weight of it on his face. He looked older now than ever before, fingers tapping against the tabletop.

“I do not like the idea of keeping secrets from the dwarves,” he murmured, looking up with sharp eyes.

“What need do dwarves have to know of trades between men and elves? We were only privy to each other's contracts with them as a sign of goodwill – a show that we were to be given what we were due and so we would not think one another had more or less. It was a peace gesture,” he scoffed, “A bowing and scraping so we'd forget what they brought down upon our kin.”

Bard didn't reply, watching him with the careful, almost guarded gaze of a man far more intelligent than he let others know. Thranduil sighed, leaning against the table and running his finger down the lines of perfectly written text.

“These are trade negotiations. Promises of aid, from my realm to yours. There is nothing written here a dwarf could object to, surely,” he said, raising an eyebrow. The man leaned in, tracing a line with his own fingers.

“The elves of the Greenwood will stand by the menfolk of Esgaroth – Dale – and those who proclaim themselves the Men of the Lake in events of turmoil and hardship. The menfolk of Esgaroth – Dale – and those who proclaim themselves the Men of the Lake will stand by the elves of the Greenwood in events of turmoil and hardship,” he read. Bard tapped the paper, “There is no mention of standing by the dwarves. If you decide to wage war on the mountain, will we not be expected to follow?”

A smile touched the corners of Thranduil's mouth.

If Bard had been raised to lead and given the skills and tutelage of a prince, he would have made a formidable king indeed.

“If there is war between the Greenwood and the mountain,” Thranduil said slowly, “You will want to be on the side of the elves. I have no intentions of meddling in the affairs of the dwarves – and even less desire to face them in battle. A war between our realms will rise only from the mountain. If the dwarf lords are turned and lose their senses enough to attack, I doubt you will be riding with them.”

“Turned?” Bard repeated, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms with a short frown.

“Turned.”

Thranduil clasped his hands behind his back, pulling away from the table and starting to slowly pace the room. He fell quiet, listening to the croak of crows circling above the city, the trilling song of the thrush; and the sighs, groans, and sobs of the menfolk – sounds inaudible to Bard.

“I have seen the ages come and go. I have seen the mighty crumble, the pure and good poisoned. There is power in this world to take the elves – fairest of beings – and twist them into orc-kind, there is power to shatter mountains and fling up oceans. I have seen it.” Thranduil turned on his heel, setting his gaze out the window – towards the west.

“The infallible fall. The grotesque survive. Twice now I have faced the forces of Morgoth and Sauron the Deceiver, twice I have met their armies in battle. Twice I have watched Arda sink beneath the broiling fume of evil. I have no desire to see it a third time, not here.”

“The dwarves have never fought on the side of evil,” Bard pointed out.

Slowly Thranduil moved his head to look at the man, his tone low and soft.

“King Thráin wore a ring forged by Sauron. For decades it poisoned his mind, and the minds of his family. Their love for gold brought down the dragon upon the mountain – and it was their line that woke the Balrog of Morgoth in Moria, ever they love and covet their treasure too greedily. Ever have the Durins waged war and spilled rivers of blood for their gold and mithril. Now Thorin sits in a mountain of cursed treasure, the heir to a cursed throne from a cursed line – and himself raised from the dead just as the Dark Lord rises again in the cloak of a Necromancer. Durin the Deathless, his kin are calling him. The dragon was a servant of Sauron. It seems to me he may have been replaced, rather than defeated.”

Bard was silent a long time, fingers clasped together and pressed to his lips and chin, elbows on the table. Finally he exhaled a long, slow breath and reached for the quill, dipping it into the ink and signing his name on both the contracts, under Thranduil's own.

“A wise choice,” Thranduil murmured, reaching for the scroll.

Bard shot his hand out, gripping Thranduil's wrist in a move fast enough to take him by surprise – though he didn't let a flicker of it show on his face.

“I will not follow you into war without proof enough to satisfy me that I must. I will not ask that of those here,” the man growled, grip tight on the elf's wrist before he let go and sat back, taking his own scroll and rolling it up to shove it into a pocket on the inside of his threadbare coat.

Thranduil took his own, it slipping easily into a wide pocket in his robes. He could still feel the lingering warmth of Bard's fingers on his skin, and he knew no other creature who would dare to reach out, to physically lay a hand on him.

“I will not lead you or your people into peril unfounded,” he promised, sitting down on the wooden chair opposite Bard and watching the weary way the man rubbed at his temples, “Work has begun on the houses of Dale, I hear. Even Prince Kíli has come to help.”

“Aye,” Bard snorted, “Though the lad managed to knock down two central pillars and set half the stones of a wall in backwards. I believe he's been put on wheel-barrow duty now.”

Thranduil nodded. He'd seen some of the young dwarf's handiwork himself as he followed the healers to the house of the sick.

“Their aid gives us hope,” the man continued, “As does yours. We will need both to survive the winter.”

“Indeed,” Thranduil nodded.

Men were such fragile creatures, twinkling in and out of life like sparks dancing from a fire – tiny, burning moments in the vast dark of eternity.

 _ Am man darthon a linnon _  
_ Nu galad hen fireb? _

He turned his head to gaze out the window again, across the plains to the mountain dark against the blue sky as the lines of poetry flitted through his mind.

Bard reminded him of one of the great kings of the First Age: wise and stern, but with a vast love for his people. He held no illusions of grandeur. He didn't hunger for wealth for himself, but had accepted the mantle of kingship under duress.

_ I laiss e-mallorn ernediaid. _

In the space between one breath and the next Bard would live and die. All those now living in Dale would pass, their children would come and go, and like leaves in autumn they'd fall.

“It brings me comfort,” Thranduil murmured, catching Bard's attention, “to see you rule Esgaroth. Did I not tell you all those years ago you were destined for great things?”

The man's brow furrowed, fingers sweeping through his dark hair to push it back from his face.

“In the forest?” he asked.

Thranduil inclined his head.

He'd been wandering the woods of his kingdom some twenty years past, drifting beneath the endless trees in the slow twilight of the Greatwood, turning east, west, north – but never south. The days and weeks had slipped under him like petals drifting down woodland streams, and he'd let the warm weight envelop him. He'd walked for months, though the forest gave few indications of the changing seasons.

Bard had come across him by the banks of the Taur Celon. It had been springtime, and the wreaths of leaves and branches of his crown had burst into flowers of yellow and pink. The man had moved in silence, managing to come as close as twenty or so paces before the hum of his bowstring had alerted Thranduil to his presence.

The fright on the young man's face shone in the dawn light. His clothes were worn, his boots open with holes, and there was a gauntness to his face. It spoke of hunger, consistent and cruel. The bodies of two thin rabbits hung by their feet from his belt.

_“Light-footed is he who treads so soft one might mistake footsteps for birds on the wing.”_

_“I mean you no harm, elf. I'm a simple boat-man, trying to feed my family.”_

_“By poaching in my woods? I am no mere elf. You stand in the presence of Elvenking Thranduil, ruler of Greenwood the Great.”_

_“There is no law against hunting in these woods. None I have heard of. My family is starving – there's a sickness in our town. You wouldn't take food from the mouths of children.”_

_“Does the Master of the men of the lake not provide?”_

_“For himself, aye.”_

_“And are you not providing for yourself, as he is?”_

_“My children and wife eat first. She's with child, she needs--...”_

Bard's stern expression had wobbled, flashes of desperation and pain racing across his features even as he held his bow steady, aimed at the king before him. Thranduil had felt a familiar tug of loneliness, deep inside him.

But there was something about the man, something about the way he held himself and the quiet strength that ran like Gondolin-forged steel through the heart of him. He was a vision Thranduil hadn't seen in thousands of years, set aflame by the light of the rising sun.

He'd turned on his heel, moving back between the thick trees.

_“Take what you need and go to your family, lake-man. Then come to my halls and I shall hire you as a bargeman to ferry goods between the Greenwood and Esgaroth. Perhaps then you will not feel the need to creep into my kingdom and poach the creatures living here.”_

_“Why are you...? You'll employ me...? Why?”_

_“You are destined for great things.”_

He had no gift of foresight like Lord Elrond, no Noldor power of the like running through the veins of the Lady Galadriel, but he had inklings. Touches of belief, flashes of knowledge beyond knowing. He had seen himself alone on the throne a hundred years before the War of the Last Alliance, his hands and thin armour stained with blood, and he'd felt – for a second – burning pain unlike any he'd ever felt scorched along the left side of his face and chest. He'd seen a ring tumble to the ground, a hand turn to dust, and he'd seen shadows growing again in the East.

In Bard he'd seen a tree of the like found in the First Age. Strong and tall, leaves a crown around its head, ageless but alive.

But trees could be chopped down, or burned, or become sick. Even the greatest and most guarded could fall to darkness.

And fall he would.

One day, to age or sickness. In battle or to a knife cloaked in darkness. Happy or sad, he would die – as they all did.

“You think too highly of me. Not something I'd ever imagined myself saying to an Elvenking,” Bard added, his voice breaking the slew of thoughts pouring through Thranduil's mind.

“In time you will understand.” He stood, hands fluttering down his robes, “I will take my leave now, and tend to those in need of aid. Until next we meet.”

The man stood too, ducking his head in a bow as Thranduil extended the same courtesy. He left Bard in the room and exited the house, turning to head toward the building where the sick were being tended.

He had promised aid, and there was work to be done.

 

 

 

*

_T.A 2941_

_November 8th_

 

_Tender illumination lays bare care_

_Precious gems are found in the disrepair_

 

 

 

Thorin reached out to place a steadying hand on Bilbo's shoulder as the hobbit stumbled, lifting his lamp higher to better light their path.

“Watch your step,” he murmured, biting back a smile as Bilbo turned his head to scowl at him.

“Oh, very helpful, thank you, and I suppose you'll tell me to be careful _after_ I fall and break every bone in my body! Really, where _are_ you taking me?”

“On a tour of Erebor, as I said.”

“Thorin, it's dark and it's cold. I can't see a damned thing beyond two feet at the most – and my own two feet are finding every loose rock to trip over! You're hardly showing Erebor to me in a good light. In fact, you're showing it to me in no light at all.”

He couldn't help but huff out a laugh at Bilbo's indignant tone, keeping a hand pressed to his small shoulder as he urged him onwards.

“Up ahead there's a balcony. This is the King's walkway, and below us lies the remains of the Mannur Bunûn – privy only to the dwarves who come to Erebor. Smaug had wormed his way in and torn it apart for his hoard, but Balin assures me much of the original stonework is untouched. This is a sight you will never forget,” he added softly.

“A pity I won't be able to see it,” Bilbo muttered.

“You will.”

Thorin kept them walking in a straight line down the narrow walkway, the sounds of little stones and rocks skittering over the sides echoing in the vast, dark chamber around them. They were a tiny, bobbing pinprick of light in the chasm, the only noises those of the falling stones, Thorin's boots, and Bilbo's bare feet.

It wasn’t long until they stepped out onto the balcony and the darkness fell deeper around them, a railing carved from obsidian coming up to their middles.

“It's beautiful,” Bilbo said dryly, peering into the dark, “How kind of you to bring me to see it.”

“You're ruining this,” Thorin grumbled. He took a step back from Bilbo and lifted his lamp, moving over to a large, stone outcrop on the left side of the balcony. Built into it were various handles and knobs, carved and inlaid with gold and silver, tiny diamonds sparkling in the lamplight. He set the lamp on a shelf above the outcrop and reached for one shaped into an elegant curl.

“Look up,” was all he said before he pulled the lever down with a clunk.

Like stars twinkling into being lights flickered above them – tiny spheres hanging in the vast dark. Thorin smiled up at them, warmth igniting in his chest as if their light was filling him.

“Lukhûdu'arisî,” Thorin whispered, “The glimmering stars of Erebor. One of our finest – and most secret – treasures.”

“Wh--... what--... _What_?” Bilbo breathed, his knuckles white as he gripped the banister, head tilted up and mouth open, shock written all over his face.

“There are more,” he smiled, pushing another lever into place.

Streams of bulbs burst into light – rich and golden – filling the room from above and drowning out the first ones. Below them the tables and stalls were upended and torn apart, cloths and wooden contraptions littering the floor – all gold and precious things removed by the dragon and the rest left to ruin.

Bilbo threw up his arm to shield his eyes, letting out several gasping, shaky breaths.

“I--... I don't--... how...?”

“Steady,” he said softly as he gripped Bilbo's shoulder, the hobbit swaying a little on his feet, “They're bulbs of glass, and in each one is a tight curl of burning copper.”

Bilbo shook his head, pushing away from Thorin to take a few unsteady steps in a circle, gazed fixed on the lights above them. He was trembling, throat bobbing before he suddenly pointed his finger at Thorin, other hand flying to his hip.

“This--...! This is--! This is ridiculous, Thorin! What in the--?! What--?!” he spluttered. Suddenly he bent over, clutching his knees and shaking his head as he gasped raggedly. Thorin quickly stepped up to him, gripping Bilbo's upper arms and firmly sitting the hobbit on a low bench carved into the granite.

“Breathe, Bilbo.”

He'd overwhelmed him – and he was an idiot to think any creature unused to such things could take them in their stride. After a year on the road, watching Bilbo battle trolls and wargs, orcs and goblins, Smaug and Azog, he'd forgotten the hobbit could still be surprised.

“I'm alright, I just...” Bilbo's voice cracked as he tilted his head to look up, squinting a little before ducking his head again, “... I don't understand,” he finished, body shivering.

Thorin gently squeezed Bilbo's shoulders, crouching in front of him.

“I should have told you before I brought you here, I didn't think they would come as such a shock to you. They're something only produced in Erebor by the finest minds and scholars. In the year 2766 of the Third Age there was a minor accident in one of the rooms used by the abâhur'abanî.”

“I don't know what that means,” Bilbo grumped, burying his face in his hands as he sucked in shaky breaths through his teeth.

“It means those who learn about the stones. The earth is filled with wonderful things. Stones and rocks that can burn in all colours, create incredible heat that lasts but a second – hotter than any fire. Liquids that can grow crystals in moments... One day you will see the Mazzulibhêr in their full glory,” Thorin said, a soft smile rising unbidden to his face.

He'd always loved them when he was young, following Balin and Fundin around. He'd been allowed to help, sometimes, adding coloured liquids to powders – always delighting in the results while Dwalin looked bored enough to chew off his own leg.

Bilbo was now looking up at him, his gaze fixed on Thorin's face and seeming to glow as he was lit by the lights hanging above them.

“And the accident...?” he asked.

“The learners were trying to create a liquid mithril. They had mixed zigili'n and a soft, white metal into a paste, but it wasn't working. The story goes they had the mixture in one clay jar, and another with just the zigili'n in it, both joined by a tube of copper to feed the zigili'n into the mixture,” Thorin said, voice and tone serious as he spoke, reciting the tale all Ereborian dwarves knew.

The hobbit raised an eyebrow, lips twisted into a half-smile.

“This is a very specific story,” he pointed out.

Thorin huffed out a laugh and inclined his head, taking his hands back from Bilbo's shoulders and sitting down next to him on the bench, looking up at the lights.

“Another learner had added sulphur powder to water and had boiled it--”

“--Why?” Bilbo interrupted, tilting his head, “What on earth for?”

“Well... to... I'm not sure,” Thorin admitted, “Many things are done for the sake of trying in the Mazzulibhêr, as far as I'm aware, but I'm sure Balin can find you the records of that day to read, if you'd like.”

The hobbit nodded, rubbing his chin.

His breathing had calmed down and some more colour had come back to his cheeks, even as he shot the lights above a suspicious look.

“Anyway,” Thorin continued, capturing his attention once more, “A young scholar dropped their pot of boiled water and sulphur onto the table the two clay jars were on, knocking them over. Barely any of their mixture spilt, and the tables have high rims to stop objects from falling off them, so the water and sulphur formed a pool, the two jars on their sides. The scholar reached for the jars, touched the tube, and felt a sharp pinch to his fingers.”

“Magic?” whispered Bilbo, eyes wide.

Thorin shook his head, crooking a small smile, “No, nothing like that. We call it a ber'ar.”

“Ber'ar,” the hobbit repeated, glancing up at the lights again, “... Then what happened?”

“Well,” Thorin murmured, shifting on his seat before standing, gesturing for Bilbo to follow him over to the side of the balcony where lines of the burning bulbs hung closest to them, “The learners found ways to create the ber'ar inside a portable chest, a hadru'arisî, and realised they could make the pinch stronger if they used copper wiring to link the hadur'arisî together.”

Bilbo clasped his hands behind his back and peered at the bulbs, turning his head and walking in small circles to get a better look as Thorin pulled the lever to turn the main lights off again, leaving them once more in soft, star-lit twilight.

“But... _Why_? Why would you make a... a chest that just gave you a nasty pinch when you touched it?” the hobbit asked, reaching to touch the levers himself – his head tilting up as he pushed it to turn the lights back on, and then off again.

“It had the added effect of making all the hair of one's head and beard separate and stand out from the head. It was all the rage in Erebor for a few decades, beards and hair like a cotton boll,” he chuckled, holding his hands out to the side of his head to demonstrate the size.

Bilbo breathed out a little laugh.

“Now that's something I'd like to see,” the hobbit chuckled, turning the lights off and on again. He pushed another lever, looking around for what had changed and frowned, “Nothing happened.”

Thorin switched the lever back and forth, fingers brushing Bilbo’s, nodding his head in agreement.

“Balin hasn't managed to replace all the hadur'arisî yet – and I believe Smaug has destroyed some of the wiring in here. This used to turn on the lukhûd of the stalls and shops below.”

The hobbit nodded, pulling another few – but no more lights worked until he pushed the second lever again to turn on the strings of bright bulbs above them.

Bilbo clasped his hands behind his back again and peered over the balcony.

“Are we allowed to go down there? I should like to explore it a little, if I may, while you continue this ludicrous story.”

“It's not ludicrous,” Thorin snorted, touching Bilbo's shoulder to lead him to a little stairway, winding down towards the market. He cleared his throat and then continued.

“Around the same time the glass blowers had created a pretty trinket where a single thread of copper was twisted into complex shapes inside a little glass sphere – none of the copper touching the rest, just one uninterrupted wire. They bent it into words, into pictures of life inside Erebor. The story goes that Lord Halvor, who had come all the way to Erebor from the Blue Mountains, bought one for his husband, Lord Vali, and decided to use a hadru'arisî.”

“To spruce up his beard and hair, I presume,” Bilbo chuckled.

They rounded the corner, stepping out into the silent marketplace. Wooden and stone stalls lay in various states of destruction, some still intact and others nothing more than rubble. Dragon-fire hadn't touched the chamber, and a layer of dust had settled over it all – though the shape of Smaug's belly dragged through it was clear, his movements visible in the disruption.

Bilbo stopped, leaning to pick up an articulated doll – a dwarf with hinge joints and a beard made of dyed wool, thick and coarse. His fingers could curl, Bilbo wrapping them around one of the miniature axes laying in a heap of tiny clothes and weapons.

“It's beautiful,” he whispered before sighing, straightening the doll's helmet and sitting it down on the counter of a stall. The hobbit started to walk again, Thorin falling into step beside him. He couldn't help but watch how Bilbo's head turned this way and that, their pace slowing as he tried to look at everything all at once, expression all but glowing with curiosity.

Thorin bit back the 'I told you so' and cleared his throat.

“Lord Halvor, while preparing to use the hadru'arisî, placed the trinket onto the two strips of copper where you're meant to place your finger, and the copper lit up into a burning curl. Just like one of these above us,” he smiled.

Bilbo looked up again, crooking a small smile and raising an eyebrow as he glanced at Thorin.

“I feel like there's still more to this story.”

“A little,” Thorin admitted, “Naturally the copper melted within a second, and the sphere seemed to fill and flash with light and sparks. I think the entire supply of those trinkets were used up in a few weeks, and the demand for them was higher than ever.”

“But if they break after a second, how on earth are these still lit?” the hobbit asked, picking up a fine skein of bright yellow goat's wool, feeling the strands before putting it down, moving on to touch the fine embroidery on a strip of dark blue cotton.

Thorin watched Bilbo pick it up and drape it over his sleeve as if he was inspecting it in a tailor's stall. It suited him. Silver thread formed tiny geometric patterns, subtle against the blue – the fabric thick and warm.

“We dwarves have a stone sense.”

“Ah! Yes, Ori told me something about it – you're able to sense up and down, directions under the ground, where gems and gold might lay in the rock, and a sense of... crafting? Is that right?” Bilbo asked, putting the cloth down and moving on to a stall full of crockery – pottery and carved.

“Mostly. Different dwarves have different gifts,” Thorin nodded, picking up a large wooden bowl with beautiful carvings of the throne room covering it.

Bilbo plucked it out of his hands to turn it over, examining it closely.

“And your gift? I assume it's not a sense of direction,” he smirked.

“I've been told it's in forging, actually,” Thorin said stiffly, using his shoulder to give Bilbo a little nudge as he walked past him to examine a set of china plates, cirth runes painted around the rim.

The sound of the hobbit's laughter echoed brightly in the chamber and Thorin couldn't help but smile at him, taking the words for what they were meant to be – a joke.

“This stone sense,” Thorin continued, “extends into a sense for where chambers lay within the earth – and what may be in them. As well as gems and precious metals the rock is full of strange airs. Some will explode when exposed to flame, and some will stop all fire from burning. Some like sulphur stink enough to upset a whole level of the mountain when a chamber is accidentally tapped into,” he chuckled.

“I had no idea...” Bilbo walked on to another stall, touching over the wooden and metal flutes and recorders on display, slowly picking them up and feeling the weight of them.

Thorin followed his lead, lifting one to his lips and blowing a long note – mournful in the stillness of the market.

He quickly put it down again, a shiver running up his spine.

“We have ways of emptying these chambers of vapours and storing them in glass or crystal so they can be used by the learners, or sold for their effects, or dispersed of outside the mountain. One of these vapours has the rather amusing effect of making the voice higher, and also puts out flames.”

“What does it look like? Taste like?” Bilbo asked, picking up a beautiful, leather-bound notebook.

The cover was a dark red with the leather tooled into a scene of Erebor rising from the ground, ravens flying around the peak and Dale sitting below it.

It was beautiful. Dís had had one just like it where she'd written her poems and stories.

“Have it,” Thorin said, catching the edge of it with his fingers as Bilbo moved to put it down, pressing it back into his hands.

“What? No, I can't--,” he spluttered, pushing it away from him. Thorin didn't relent.

“Have it. It's sat here forgotten long enough.”

Bilbo hesitated, looking from the notebook to Thorin and down again, his brow furrowed. After a tense second he exhaled sharply and smiled, nodding his head.

“Alright. Thank you. I'll put it to good use.”

Thorin nodded back and clasped his hands behind him, starting to walk again. The silence and the dust, the torn, broken, left the remains of the market feeling less like a splendid relic and more like a miserable catacomb.

“The vapour is colourless and odourless. The only effect you would notice is the heightening of your voice, but many of us can feel and... sense its presence. One of the learners filled a bulb with the vapour – which we call gufrajât \- and used cork to stopper the bulb. The copper wires were pushed through it so the gufrajât wouldn't leak out, and placed on the hadru'arisî.”

“And as the, ah, gufrajât put out flames – as you said – the bulb... didn't work?” Bilbo asked, falling into step beside him as they started to make their way back towards.

Thorin smiled, some of the uneasy weight in his chest lessening.

“No. It worked. The gufrajât stops the copper wire from melting. Hemp fibres are wrapped around the wires to stop them from disintegrating, and they're strung up. Here,” Thorin added, opening a stone door cut below the balcony.

He pulled a lever attached to the wall, a single bulb turning on to reveal hundreds of stone crates, stacked in various patterns and each with hemp-wrapped wires in thick bundles running out of them.

“These are the hadur'arisî,” said Thorin, leading Bilbo over to the crates and kneeling. He opened the lid, showing Bilbo the jar like stone structures the wires sprouted from.

“And they just... work forever?” Bilbo asked a little breathlessly, leaning down to cautiously touch the wires.

Thorin couldn't help but reach out to touch them too, a slight warmth against his fingertips. He shook his head.

“No, they run out of their ber'ar eventually. Balin and Glóin spent the better part of the last day replacing these so they would work. Soon all of Erebor will be relit, and the caverns will glow with light. Individual rooms, too.”

He waited until Bilbo had taken his hands back before closing the lid again, standing up and brushing his knees down.

“It's amazing,” the hobbit laughed, his hands resting on his hips as he looked around the room, notebook under one arm, “All of it... Amazing. I think I'm starting to understand why you called it the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth.”

“And you're no longer frightened by the lights?” Thorin smirked as he lead Bilbo from the room and back up the stairs to the balcony after turning off the single bulb amid the hadur'arisî.

Bilbo huffed, jabbing Thorin in the side, “I was not frightened, thank you very much! I was just surprised. And quite reasonably so, if I may add, as you gave me absolutely no warning whatsoever. In fact,” Bilbo exclaimed, “I think I acted perfectly normally!”

Thorin couldn't stifle his laugh in time to avoid another jab from Bilbo's elbow. He stepped out onto the balcony, once again turning off the main lights to leave the ones strung up like stars glowing above them. By the time he'd pushed the levers into place Bilbo had sat himself down on the stone floor, gazing up at them with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his hands, notebook placed beside him.

“They're beautiful, Thorin. Thank you for showing me.”

He hesitated, caught by some weight to Bilbo's words – or as if he'd touched a hadru'arisî and felt the shock travel from his fingertips to the centre of his chest, warmth tingling through him. After a second he moved to lower himself down, sitting beside the hobbit – utterly unable to tear his eyes away from Bilbo's face.

 

 

“I've been thinking,” he said suddenly, forcing himself to look away as Bilbo cocked an eyebrow at him, “About the mithril I gave you. And your thoughts on how I should have kept it for myself.”

“Oh,” murmured the hobbit, “...Well?”

Thorin looked back at him.

“It wouldn't have fit.”

Bilbo blinked, opening his mouth. He snapped it shut and frowned deeply, opening it again right after.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“The mithril. It wouldn't have fit me. Even if I had kept it, I couldn't have worn it.”

“It--... It wouldn't have--... Oh,” Bilbo said rather pathetically. Then his expression cracked and he started to laugh, throwing his head back with the force of it. His round face turned red, the lines around his eyes and forehead deepening as he laughed and laughed until Thorin couldn't help but join in.

By the time their laughter had died out they were both on their backs on the balcony, gazing up at the steady burning lights above their heads.

Bilbo hummed out a low noise of contentment, resting his hands on his stomach. He turned his head after a pause, smiling wryly.

“Isn’t it your birthday soon?”

“Who told you that?” grumbled Thorin, frowning up at the lights.

“Balin. I told him I’d missed mine, and he said yours was coming up. I said it was a good excuse for a celebration, and he agreed.”

Thorin groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. The last thing he wanted was to host the celebration - not to mention they barely had the resources for day to day life, let alone feasting.

“I’m sorry you missed yours, but we don’t have the supplies for a celebration. Not after the coronation and the public mourning… And I haven’t the heart for it,” he admitted.

The hobbit’s hand was warm as it pressed briefly against his shoulder. Thorin looked over to him, a small smile tugging his lips in response to Bilbo’s own.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll think something up.”

Another quiet fell between them, the both of them gazing up at the bulbs strung in constellations across the dark roof of the chamber.

“I've been thinking about the cousin you mentioned, who had... What did you call it... Triplets? Three babies, at once?” Thorin said softly, changing the subject.

“Oh, yes. Lavender Took. Triplets run in her family – and the size of her! It was hardly a surprise. Do dwarves not have them? Triplets, I mean,” asked Bilbo, stretching his arms out so he could rest the back of his head on his hands.

The stone floor beneath them was cold and hardly the most comfortable – or sensible place – in Erebor to lay down on, but Thorin was loathe to move. Here, for a moment, he wasn't a king. He was just... Thorin.

“No. Never. Nor twins. As far as I know there's never been a recorded case among us.”

“What!” Bilbo exclaimed, “Never? Well...!” he raised his eyebrows high before dropping them again with a rueful smile, “I suppose, had I been a dwarf, I wouldn't have been quite so odd.”

Thorin frowned, “You were odd?”

“Oh, don't tell me you don't think I'm rather queer,” the hobbit laughed. He huffed out a sigh, looking back to the lights, “I'm an only child. A very rare case indeed, for hobbits.”

“It's not so unusual for dwarves. Many of us cannot have children, so those who can tend to have more than one, but there are only children. Bifur is.”

Bilbo's head whipped round, eyes widening as he crooked a smile, “Is he? Is he really... I always assumed he had an older sibling – perhaps gone, if I'm honest. But he's like a brother to Bofur and Bombur, isn't he?”

Thorin nodded his head, humming out a low note of agreement.

“Indeed – but were you not close with your cousins?”

“Oh, yes, very. In my youth. Unfortunately they all turned out to be rather sensible hobbits with husbands and wives and twins and triplets, and I'm... I'm--...”

The hobbit's voice cracked, his throat bobbing as he stared up at the ceiling. Bilbo fell silent, every muscle in Thorin's body aching to reach out and put his hand on the other's shoulder, to show him some comfort, but he didn't dare move.

“... I'm here,” Bilbo whispered, “in the halls of a mountain king, having faced down a dragon and an army of orcs, and while I do want to go home again, I do, I'm also... quite happy here. For a little while.”

Thorin slowly let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, nodding his head.

“Then I hope, for a little while--”

“--Thorin!”

Dwalin's voice, echoing around the chamber and the sound of his hurried footsteps. Lightning-quick they both clambered to their feet, Thorin clearing his throat as a flush rose to his cheeks, the both of them quickly brushing down their rumpled clothing.

“Thorin! There's--...” Dwalin rounded the corner and stopped, slowly looking between them, “Sorry,” he grunted, “There's an elf here. Important one, apparently. Balin says you've got to come.”

“Who is it? What name?” Bilbo asked, picking up his notebook and hurrying after Thorin. Dwalin shrugged his shoulders, looking between them again and fixing his gaze on Thorin's face.

“I don't know, but she wants to see you.”

 

 

 

*

_Some best intentions only run past hell_

_Gliding by via a portentous knell_

 

 

 

_Thorin Oakenshield. Long have I desired to speak with you._

 

A shiver raced down Thorin's spine. Her voice seemed to echo in his head, rattling and bouncing around his skull. He had been sat on the throne by Balin, once more in the finest clothes that could be found, and was flanked by the Company and Dáin, each quiet and solemn-faced.

Fíli had been brought too, on Gandalf's insistence, carried in by Dori, Glóin, Dwalin, and Kíli on a portable bed – the legs on hinges that could be raised up to create a stretcher and brought back down to set up a pallet. He was still pale, his skin touched with ashen hues, but a fine cloak had been set over his shoulders and the heir's crown was nestled in his golden hair.

The Arkenstone sat in a small wooden box on a pedestal before the throne, Gandalf standing beside it and leaning on his staff.

She would come to them, Gandalf explained. She would talk with each of them, and examine the Arkenstone – possibly take it with her.

All dwarves had been ordered to separate parts of the mountain or Dale. This was to be a meeting between Galadriel and the Company of Thorin Oakenshield without onlookers or an audience, Dáin there by Thorin's own insistence. His cousin had every right to stand beside him, especially if Lord Elrond and Thranduil were permitted into the chamber.

Thorin's heart pounded in his chest, skin clammy with sweat, the air tight with anticipation. The smell of earth - deep and rich - wafted across them like oncoming spring as the elf turned the corner to step onto the walkway, visible to them for the first time.

Galadriel was dressed in whites and blues, taller even than Thranduil and Elrond on either side of her. Bare feet stepped silently as she walked towards them, hair in long, loose golden tresses falling around her shoulders.

She seemed to glow, and as Thorin's eyes met hers she smiled, her voice crashing around him.

 

_I see you._

 

He couldn't breathe, throwing his arm up to shield his eyes as the edges of her seemed to suddenly burst with blinding light, as if engulfed with flame. The smell of earth was overwhelming, sharp tree-sap and the sweetness of flowers mixed into it.

 

_I see what is in you._

 

Thorin's skin seemed to tighten around his bones and for a second he felt as if he was burning. Like a candle guttering out in the wind it all disappeared and he was left gasping for breath, slumped on his throne.

“Do not be afraid,” she said, her voice as sweet and light as birdsong and as deep and strong as the roots of a mountain. Thranduil and Elrond had fallen back, all eyes fixed on Thorin as Galadriel stepped slowly up to the throne, seeming to tower over him.

 

_You can feel it._

 

She sank down into a crouch, her bare feet flat on the floor as she rested her forearms on her knees and tilted her head to look at him, lips stretched into a wide smile. He was frozen on the throne, fingers gripping the arms so tightly he was numb below the elbow.

“Thorin--” Dwalin gritted out, but he was stopped by his brother's hand on his shoulder. The company was motionless around them, as if rooted to the floor.

 

_It has been a long time since last I beheld this sight._

 

Galadriel reached out, her hands seeming to stretch bigger and wider than possible. Every muscle in Thorin's body had locked, heart slamming against his ribs.

Her fingers were like ice against his skin.

Howling, screaming, biting winds and cold tore through him as he was plunged into darkness. Flurries of snow blinded him and cut off his hearing, his feet bare and buried in it. Monstrous shapes loomed from the twilight, blocking out the smattering of stars across the sky; vast peaks and deadly ravines of ice – and creatures whose voices rose and fell with the wailing of the winds, tall and terrible around him.

Ships like great birds collapsing into flame, waters glistening red with blood, a moonless sky.

Fields stretching as far as the eye could see, green grass churned to mud and the air a broil of smog and fume. Above roared beasts larger than mountain ranges, their wings like crashing thunder – wolves as gargantuan as cave trolls ripping through hosts of beings that shone like gems of every colour, and bats with human faces and teeth like pikes tore at them.

A ring.

A single, golden ring on a steel-wrapped finger, wreathed in snarling flames.

And then golden leaves, branches stretching up higher than he could see. Peace, soft grass, and birdsong.

Like he'd been dropped from a great height Thorin jolted with a choked gasp. Galadriel's hands caught him as he slumped forwards, winded and shaking, the blue of her eyes deeper and more endless than the night sky.

Her smile had dropped from her lips, face terrible and great with knowledge and age.

 

_He will come to you. You must turn him away._

 

All Thorin could do was nod, letting Galadriel's fingers guide him back to rest against the throne. He felt like he'd been dragged through fire and flame, like somehow he'd been torn apart and put back together.

Slowly his senses started to return to him, the cold sweat slicking his skin and the warmed stone under his fingers, the smell of the cool mountain air – and the worried, whispering voices of his kin, low in their Khuzdul.

Galadriel smiled at him again, warm and gentle. The tension and terror seemed to sluice off him, his breath rushing out in one long exhale, peace filling the ragged cracks running through him.

 

_You have their loyalty, and their love._

_I don't deserve it._

_There is light. It will guide you. You will never be alone._

 

She smiled wider and moved to stand again in a single, flowing movement.

“You must be strong. More than ever shall you know despair, but there is hope, too.”

Thorin swallowed past the hot coals lodged in his throat, nodding his head and uncurling his fingers from their grip on the arms of the throne.

Her gaze slid from him to Fíli, each footstep silent as she approached his bed. Thorin's breath caught as she splayed her wide, long fingers over his sister-son's chest, closing her eyes. Fíli choked out a noise, head tilting back – and for a second Thorin thought he could see tendrils of light slipping from her fingers to wriggle across the young dwarf's skin.

She pulled back with a smile, Fíli relaxing against his pillows – a flush of colour on his cheeks.

Galadriel turned from him, walking over to the Arkenstone and plucking it from the box. She held it up as if inspecting the quality of the gem, turning it this way and that in the light – though it neither caught nor reflected any of it, remaining dull in her fingers. Thorin glanced over to his kin, inclining his head to try and reassure them, confusion and fright written over their faces.

After a long pause she placed it back in the box and turned to them again.

As one the Company and Dáin inhaled sharply, all their eyes widening and their posture stiffening.

“Le athae,” Kíli suddenly blurted out, his cheeks burning bright red, Galadriel's spell over them breaking as they turned to stare at him.

She laughed, and it was like water skipping over the stones of little brooks as she smiled delightedly at Kíli. A moment seemed to pass between the two, his cheeks burning brighter.

Galadriel picked up the box and glanced back at Thorin as she started to walk back to the entrance of the mountain.

“We will meet again, Thorin Oakenshield. Farewell.”

“Farewell,” he croaked, inclining his head as she left – Thranduil and Elrond exchanging glances with each other before they hurried after her.

Gandalf turned to them and bowed his head, a beam crinkling his face further.

“I shall take my leave with the Lady and return to the mountain soon – as I'm sure you all have questions. Some I cannot yet answer – but answer I shall, when and if I might.”

Silence echoed around the hall as Gandalf followed the elves down the walkway and out of the mountain, the very air seemingly crystallised. Bilbo cleared his throat.

“Please tell me you all heard her voice in your head.”

A cacophony of noise broke out among them, all turning to each other and starting to speak loudly – some of their experiences and some demanding answers from others while Óin moved to inspect Fíli – but Thorin kept his silence until Bilbo's hand rested gently on top of his forearm.

“Are you alright?” the hobbit murmured, his kindly eyes warm and brow pinched with concern.

“Fine,” Thorin replied, letting out another slow exhale, “She said-- ...”

He cut himself off.

What _had_ she said? So much, and yet nothing set in stone. The visions danced across his mind again, a shiver running down his spine. There was something in him, Galadriel had seen it – and she'd seen it before. But she'd said there was hope, and he wouldn't be alone.

Nausea rocked his gut. He'd never be alone. Then was there some remnant of the Enemy now in him? Some foul thing to slowly poison his mind again?

“Thorin...?” Bilbo's hand tightened on his arm.

Now more than ever he had to be strong. He had to guard his thoughts, had to guard his actions – had to guard his kin.

“I'm fine. I will take my leave. She has given me much to consider.”

Thorin pushed himself to his feet, shaking off Bilbo's grip and hurrying towards the tiny passageway for the King's personal use to and from his chambers, ignoring the way Bilbo watched him leave.

He was not alone.

 

 

 

*

_Friends' mettle is polished by kintsugi_

_A king is rediscovered by the quay_

 

 

 

Dwalin let his feet guide him down winding paths his mind had long since forgotten, lamp lifted high as he followed the corridor before him. It was dusk, his stone-sense told him, and as he stepped out onto the long, narrow balcony carved into the side of the mountain, the yellows and pinks of the setting sun washed over him.

“Thought I'd find you here,” he said to the dwarf sitting on a bench cut from the stone, dressed in simple clothes and cuts.

Thorin didn't turn his head, hands clasped loosely in his lap and gaze set far out over the land around them. He was illuminated by the dimming light, glowing as if he was inlaid with pearl, his profile strong – but there was misery written all over his face.

“You missed supper,” Dwalin tried, but it elicited no response.

He sighed heavily and blew out his lamp, setting it down by the door to sit beside Thorin. His fingers gripped his knees as he let his gaze wander over the rolling lands below him, finally catching on the lights twinkling in Dale.

The quiet clack and thunk of tools on stone from those working in Dale could just be heard, toiling into the night to rebuild the city, though he couldn't see them. There was laughter, too, and snatches of song. Another caravan of food had been taken to Dale, and Bombur had spent the better part of the day creating a massive pot of thick stew for the menfolk.

It felt good. It felt right.

“Did they send you to find me?” murmured Thorin, his voice heavy.

“No. I came myself,” he answered. He didn't ask who 'they' were in Thorin's mind, knowing well enough who he meant. Balin, for one, Gandalf and the hobbit, too. Those who occasionally asked too many questions, who sometimes still watched Thorin like he was made of glass despite their loud declarations of his good health.

“You're worried about me.”

Dwalin nodded, not turning his head as Thorin looked at him.

After a long moment Dwalin exhaled heavily, rubbing his hands over his face and leaning back against the wall, glancing over to his lifelong friend.

“Aye, I'm worried about you, Thorin. Coming back from the dead aside, that damn elf shook you down to your stones – turned you all queer for a while. Thought she might have put some elf magic on you to cause you pain,” he added with a grumble, “But the wizard tells me she didn't, and I suppose I must believe him.”

Again silence fell between them, Thorin's gaze returning to Dale. They both glanced up as a pair of thrushes swooped past, their song filling the darkening sky, stars peeking out where dark blues and violets touched the pinks.

“I would ask your forgiveness, but I don't believe I deserve it. I failed you. I failed all of you, but I failed you, my friend, even as you stood beside me,” Thorin breathed.

The ribs around Dwalin's heart and lungs seemed suddenly too small and tight.

“Thorin--”

“--Please. Let me say what I need to. You stood beside me in my darkest, foulest moments. Moments where I weighed the value of your life – your loyalty – against gold, and found the latter worth more. I led you into peril of my own making, and you followed me. You've always followed me.”

Dwalin snorted, nodding his head and clasping his hands together. He'd followed Thorin for as long as he could remember, since they were bairns, and he'd follow him right to the end if he could.

“When Fíli fell, you stayed by him to defend his body. You saved his life. There are no words for how grateful I am, no words for the depth of it. I owe you a debt I can never repay.” Thorin's voice was tight and full of emotion.

“Ach,” Dwalin grunted, rubbing at the sting in his eyes, “you always go on when you're feeling guilty. You owe me nothing. I swore my allegiance to you, and I'd swear it again, and those lads are my family – helped bring them up, didn't I? You're my king, and my akrâgkharm. You always will be.”

Thorin choked out a little laugh, shaking his head.

“You always grant me too much kindness, akrâgkharmê.”

“Because you never grant yourself enough,” Dwalin shot back, elbowing Thorin gently and crooking a small smile at him.

Now it felt better. Now it felt like the wound between them had been cleansed, and though it still needed stitching and wrapping, the first stones had been cut. The bond and love between them was still there. Still strong, even though it had weathered and been worn in places. It could be mended, forged stronger than ever.

Dwalin reached out, clasping Thorin's shoulder hard before he pulled him into an embrace, holding him tight until they had both relaxed into it. He let go, knocking their foreheads together hard enough Thorin grunted and batted him away with a chuckle and a groan of, “Kakhuf inbarathrag.”

He stood with a loud laugh, clasping both of Thorin's hands and pulling him up onto his feet.

“And the same to you. Come on. There's work to do, and idle hands find no gems. According to Balin there are hadur'arisî to refill, bulbs to reset, and much more.”

Thorin nodded, brushing himself down and taking a deep breath. The gears and cogs turned in him, and Dwalin could see how Thorin straightened his shoulders and spine, how he schooled his expression into something between stern and neutral. He was putting himself back together, drawing on all his inner threads to hide behind his walls.

It was a sight Dwalin had seen too many times over the decades.

He clapped the other on the shoulder again and picked up his lamp, relighting it with a small stone mechanism, the wick catching the spark and springing up into flame.

The walk back into Erebor was quiet, the shifts in temperature from the cool outside air subtle as they wound closer to the heart of the mountain – taking the long, narrow paths past areas where groups of dwarves would be resting, giving both them and Thorin a little privacy.

Before long they rounded the corner into a chamber used for the planning and directing of work groups, just as ten or so dwarves rose to their feet from around a marble table, parchment laid out on its surface.

Bifur was among their number, and he grinned broadly at the sight of them. Though he still sported a bandage around where the axe had been embedded (and subsequently removed mid-battle by way of a particularly firm head-butt, depositing it into the skull of an orc), he waved cheerily and beckoned them over.

“Shamukh!” he called.

Dwalin raised his hand, Thorin nodding his head as they drew up to the group – the other dwarves bowing deep and low to their king. The stiffness to Thorin's shoulders spoke volumes, but Dwalin doubted it would be noticed by the others.

“Shamukh,” Thorin nodded, “What work is to be done?”

A dwarf stepped forwards with another bow, tugging at the straps of his backpack.

“Clearance of the Mannur Bunûn, your highness, cataloguing the contents, checking the support pillars, fixing the wiring,” Kno̧rr started to list, ticking them off on his fingers – counting by each knuckle, rather than just the fingertip, “refilling the hadur'arisî, fixing the stalls, moving the rubble, and general tidying.”

“Mi targê,” sighed Bifur, shooting Dwalin a wry look. He rolled up his sleeves, and – without waiting for the others – walked off in the direction of the Mannur Bunûn.

Kno̧rr rested his hands on his hips and shook his head, braids flying out around him as he grumbled something under his breath about groups and orders and rules, and those who broke them in the name of helping.

“We will be joining you, if we may,” Thorin interrupted. Kno̧rr's eyes widened while he blustered out a few noises before finishing with another deep bow.

“Your highness! You needn't--”

“--I'd like to. I wish to help rebuild Erebor. I am fully recovered, and there is much work to do. Every hand is needed – and mine are no strangers to work.”

A little thrill of pride rushed through Dwalin.

Here was the dwarf he'd follow to the ends of Middle Earth. Here was the being with such strength and promise, the beacon of hope and prosperity he'd always believed Thorin to be.

“If you insist, your highness,” the other dwarf conceded, gesturing for the group to follow him down the pathways.

It was good. This was good. There was something comforting in him and Thorin side by side again, heaving rubble to and fro in the chamber; something familiar in the sweat on his brow and the ache in his muscles. They had spent so many years toiling together in the Blue Mountains, working in the towns of menfolk. Together they had scraped the coin, the food, the supplies for their displaced people – for the princes, after their birth, and Dís after the death of her husband.

Thorin had always worked for his people. He was always working for them, always trying to provide what he could – and really, hadn't his sickness been just a twisted version of those desires?

Dwalin paused, wiping his brow on a scrap of cloth as he watched his king pick up a chunk of stone, carrying it over to the pile that would be ground down into a paste with other elements, and wrapped around the pillars for reinforcement.

Thorin was holding himself up higher, his shoulders relaxed and the hint of a smile to his face.

He'd always fared better when he had work to do. Not even sparring – Dwalin's favourite mode of relaxation – could set his friend as at ease as work did.

Above all, Dwalin thought as he stooped to pick up another chunk of rock - half the sign of a boiled sugar sweets shop, the multicoloured treats his favourite as a lad - he had his akrâgkharm back.

Just like when they were younger, he'd protect him. He was the king's guard, and he had his king.

With a feeling of contentment low in his gut Dwalin dropped the piece of sandstone in his hands on the pile and crooked a grin at Thorin.

“Mug of ale says I can shift more stone than you, your highness.”

Thorin raised his eyebrows before huffing out a laugh, shooting him a rueful smirk.

“On your head when you owe me an ale tonight, then.”

Dwalin laughed loudly and strode back to the rubble, Thorin hot on his heels, the two of them moving in tandem.

 

 

 

*

_T.A 2941_

_November 9th_

 

_Unexpected aid follows Gemini_

_Cousins do not their mirth dignify_

 

 

 

Legolas paused at the sound of a loud whistle from behind him, tugging at the reins of his horse to urge it from an easy canter to a stop as he turned in his saddle and stroked his hand along its heaving sides.

He was only a day's ride north from Erebor despite having set off five days thence – the cool air leaving his and the horse's breath a mist around them even as the climbing sun shone brightly.

Winter was swiftly approaching and a frost lay upon the grass as the sun rose to his right, painting the land in gentle hues. He had spent a few days outside of Dale, riding down to where Esgaroth had stood and once more inspecting the damage wrought by Smaug. There was no healing or relief he could bring to the burned and charred land, and the waters of the lake were foul with wreckage and the body of the sunken dragon in its depths.

“Mae govannen!”

Two elves, each with dark hair and identical faces pulled up on either side of him: Elladan and Elrohir, Lord Elrond's sons. He'd been introduced to them after the battle, armour blood-stained and body weary – and even to a well-rested elven eye it was difficult to tell them apart. Elrohir had the slightly fuller mouth, if he remembered correctly, and his brother a thinner jaw.

They were both dressed in fine, thin leathers and armours, bows strapped to their backs and long swords at their sides.

Legolas inclined his head in greeting, taking note of their packs and travelling cloaks.

“Mae govannen,” he replied, “What brings you so far from the mountain? Is your father not still attending the wounded there with your aid?”

“He is indeed,” Elladan nodded, “But our help is no longer needed. We are travelling back to Imladris.”

“Then you are surely heading in the wrong direction. Imladris lays to the west, and I am riding north.”

Peals of tinkling laughter burst from their mouths, horses easing into a walk on either side of Legolas's own, snorting and nickering softly. Birdsong filled the air, the little rolling hills dotted with trees. The last wild-flowers of autumn bloomed between tufts of grass, entrances of rabbit warrens hidden here and there between them.

“We have heard many tales of the Greenwood,” Elrohir smiled, “As well as stories of its King and Prince.”

“We wished to make your acquaintance. Our last meeting was all too short,” the other added, the two exchanging glances between them.

Legolas kept the frown off his face, resisting the urge to look between them – something in their musical tone starting an itch in his fingers for his bow.

“It is a great honour to once again meet the sons of Lord Elrond,” he said carefully, nudging his horse to walk a little faster, though the twins effortlessly kept pace.

Surely they weren't going to ride with him for long, if they were meant to be returning to Imladris.

“And a great honour to meet the son of King Thranduil!” they smiled.

Elrohir reached into one of his packs, pulling out a water-skin and twisting open the stopper. He took a sip before holding it out to Legolas with graceful nod of his head.

“An ngell nîn,” the elf laughed as Legolas hesitated, “Let us ride now as friends, for a while. Surely you are old enough to drink, and this is a fine wine,” he added as his brother let out a soft chuckle.

Legolas frowned, taking the skin from the other and lifting it to his lips. The wine was sweet and cool, slipping easily down his throat – yet it warmed his stomach from within.

“It is,” he agreed, passing it over as Elladan held out his hand, “And though you are many years older than myself I am no stranger to wine.”

He had seen behaviour like this before – laughter and joviality between those who were close. Himself and Tauriel had touched upon a bond like the brothers had over their centuries of friendship, but to be put in the middle of it (quite literally) was unfamiliar to him.

“We cannot be that much older than you,” Elrohir pressed, “We were born in the year 103 of the Third Age.”

“And I in the year 1005,” Legolas replied, taking another sip of the wine as it was passed back to him, “You are only nine hundred or so years older than me, then.”

Somehow it was a relief. They seemed so much older, and they carried their father's venerable bearing despite their youthful faces. The set to their shoulders spoke of learning, an eternity of refinement – true elves of Imladris and the West, descendants indeed of the great and mighty warriors of the First Age.

“We had imagined the son of King Thranduil would be a little... Taller,” Elladan smiled, “After all, his beauty and height are legendary.”

Legolas's fingers twitched, brushing over the hilt of his sword. All kindly thoughts towards the brothers flew from his mind as he scowled deeply.

“Dôl gîn lost,” he spat, nudging his horse into a quick trot. He didn't need to be reminded of his plainness, of how his mother had shone like the sun and his father the moon, and how he was dull between them. The whispers and murmurs from his own kin were something he had endured for centuries, the assurance that he would – one day – take on their likeness falling flat as time passed and his features remained as they were.

He didn't need to hear those words again.

The twins caught up effortlessly, both laughing and reaching out to grip Legolas's shoulders.

“No veren, no veren,” they cried in tandem, slowing Legolas' horse back down to a walk as he shook their hands from him.

“You do not have your father's beauty,” Elladan smiled, “But you have his prowess in battle, and the fiery temper of your kin.”

Legolas scowled, taking the wine-skin as it was offered to him and drinking deeply, wiping his mouth dry on the back of his hand and passing it back.

“And you have the arrogance of yours,” he growled, but it only drew more laughs from the brothers.

“Do not take our words for cruelty,” said Elrohir, “We mean you no harm, nor offence. Our apologies if we have caused any. Peditham hi sui vellyn?”

After a long moment Legolas sighed and let the tension seep from his frame, running his fingers over the simple braid in his hair, put there by his father before he'd left Dale. He nodded his head, accepting another mouthful from the emptying wine-skin.

For a while the three rode in silence, listening to the songs of the birds above them and the soft noises from their horses.

“We heard mention your father had set you off in search for someone,” Elladan said, tone gentle in the calm morning air.

Legolas glanced over, brow furrowing.

“He did,” he nodded, “What business of it is yours?”

“None, none,” Elrohir laughed, “Except that we heard you were sent in search of a ranger by the name of Strider.”

“What of it?” Legolas asked, his tone tightening. While his father hadn't told him his search was to be done in secret, it was strange they knew so much.

“Nothing--,” Elladan started, but Legolas interrupted him.

“--Except?”

Both twins burst out into laughter, throwing their heads back with the force of it. They smiled widely at Legolas, something akin to warmth in their eyes.

“Except,” chuckled Elrohir, “We know this Strider of whom you speak, and he resides in Imladris. Won't you allow us to escort you to him, and to our home? It would be our honour to entertain the Prince of the Greenwood.”

Legolas frowned, pulling his horse to a stop.

“But my father said...”

“Your father has the gift of foresight, to a degree; however, we assure you Strider is in Imladris. He will go to the north in time – that our own father has seen – but you will wait many years for him if you travel there,” Elladan said, both their faces growing serious under the thin winter sun.

They had no reason to lie. No reason to trick him, or distract him from his task – and it was true his father's visions were more like intuitions than the visions of Lord Elrond or the Lady Galadriel.

“... Then I will ride west with you, for now,” he agreed after some contemplation, turning his horse away from where the sun was steadily rising and following the twins as they headed back towards the borders of Mirkwood.

Imladris. The last homely house east of the sea. Long had he heard tales of it, and as a child he had spent many hours imagining buildings of ivory and pearl in shimmering spires, elves bearing all the grace and loveliness as those first who had come from Valinor.

Now it seemed he would see it with Lord Elrond's sons as his guides.

“It would be our pleasure,” Elrohir smiled, a twinkle in his eye, “And our pleasure to introduce you to Strider – though we will say no more on the matter!”

“Indeed not,” laughed Elladan, “Otherwise we will fill your mind with stories and ideas, and spoil the meeting altogether.”

Legolas shook his head and took the offered wine-skin once more, finishing what was left in it. As he passed it back he couldn't help but hope they'd packed more of them. Wine was sure to make the road seem shorter, and the company of the twins more bearable.

Or, he thought with a wry twist to his lips as Elladan started to sing, it would allow him to forget this journey completely.

Elrohir joined in, voice rising and falling in lilting harmonies, each note making the latter seem more and more preferable.

It was going to be a long ride.

 

 

 

*

_Miracles ignore bouts of happenstance_

_Cunning sleight of hand leaves nothing to chance_

 

 

 

“Kee,” whispered Fíli as he gently shook his younger brother's shoulder, “You're asleep on my arm.”

It had to be around midday, though his sense of time had been muddled by his illness. His little brother's face scrunched, slumped halfway over the bed and chair. He'd barely moved since Fíli had woken, leaving only when he was made to by Thorin, Óin, or Balin, eating all possible meals by his bed. It was sweet – and it was more comforting than he liked to admit.

“Kíli,” he tried again, giving him another little push. He breathed out a laugh as the younger dwarf groaned and pulled away from the bed, rubbing his face with the heels of both his palms, a grumpy scowl on his face.

“What...? What time is it...?” he grumbled.

“Around noon, I think.”

Fíli grunted, sitting up in the bed. He crooked a smile as Kíli reached forwards to rearrange the pillows behind him, warm affection sparking in his chest.

“Just after, I reckon,” Kíli sighed, stretching with a loud, long groan and a creaking and cracking of his joints, “I'm starving. Think Nori's gonna bring us some honey cakes today?”

“I doubt it, he said something about 'securing a base' yesterday. He'll be up to all sorts, probably,” he smirked, shaking his head and pulling his loosely braided back from his face.

His brother laughed and rose to his feet with a languid stretch, going over to the silver pitcher of water on the table beside the bed, pouring them each a mug. The air in the room was warm from the fire, Fíli’s mouth and throat dry. The water would be tepid, but it would do.

Balin had told them the plumbing was being fixed in the next few days and the rooms would soon have running water again – though it would be cold until the forges were all burning once more. Kíli sat down again, handing Fíli one mug and drinking from the other.

“Are you feeling better, after the Lady Galadriel...?” he asked softly, concern all over his young face, “She healed you further, didn't she?”

“I think so.”

Fíli touched his hand over his chest and side, the stitched wounds itchy – but not painful, not anymore. He didn't feel so flushed and sweaty, stomach and head soothed though he'd been exhausted after the meeting, spending the evening and night either asleep or in a silent doze.

He sighed heavily, taking a sip of his water and relaxing back against his pillows.

“She told me there was life ahead. She said it would be like countless stars in the night sky, shining out against the creeping shadow.”

“Huh,” his brother replied, scratching at his chin, “That's... good?”

“What did she say to you?” Fíli asked, placing his mug on the bedside table with a grunt of effort.

Kíli's cheeks flamed bright red, his gaze instantly dropping to his feet as he twisted his fingers together and rubbed vigorously at his nose.

“Nothing, really! You know. Just. Nothing.”

He raised his eyebrows at his younger brother, trying not to grin too wide at him. Even after decades and decades Kee was still a terrible liar.

“Uh huh? You spoke to her in Elvish.”

“I--! I-- …” Kíli blustered, a look of pain and fear flashing over his face, his cheeks a solid red, “Fee... There's something I've got to tell you, I--”

There was a knock on the door a second before it opened, Elrond bowing to them and stepping into the room. Óin followed him in with a tray covered in bowls and plates of food, nodding his head at the two young dwarves.

“Prince Fíli, Prince Kíli,” said Elrond, “Well met. How are your injuries faring?”

“Much better, thank you, Lord Elrond,” Fíli replied, Kíli mumbling noises of assent from beside him.

A small smile touched the elf’s lips as Óin bustled past him to set the tray down and hand out the bowls to them. Kíli took his with enthusiasm, starting to eat the sweetened porridge without waiting.

“Good news indeed,” Elrond nodded, “And I have news of my own. The time has come for me to leave Erebor and return to Imladris. Already my sons have left, and there is no more help here I can give above the excellent care provided by Master Óin and his apprentices.”

Relief wriggled through Fíli’s chest.

If Lord Elrond – the best healer in all of Middle Earth – felt he was now safe enough to leave, then surely... surely he would make a full recovery. Surely now the worst was behind him.

“Thank you,” he croaked, his throat tight, “Thank you for all you have done – for myself, my brother, my uncle, and my kin. We owe you our lives.”

A warm smile touched Elrond's lips as he inclined his head.

“I have, however,” the elf continued, “instructed an elven healer of great skill in the particulars of your health. As she is from the Greenwood she will stay under King Thranduil, and reside between Dale and Erebor to tend to you as you regain your health.”

He moved aside to let someone else in, a red-haired elven maiden stepping into the room.

Tauriel. Captain of Thranduil's guard, their captor, and... now his personal elven healer?

Kíli choked on his porridge, almost dropping his spoon and bowl in his lap as his cheeks once again flamed redder than one of Bilbo's prized tomatoes.

“An honour,” Tauriel said, bowing her head. She was deliberately not looking at Kíli – the dwarf trying to clean the porridge from his face, put the bowl and spoon down, and stand up all at the same time.

“A privilege,” replied Fíli, though all his attention was on the strange actions of his brother.

Elrond rolled up his sleeves and walked over to the bed, Kíli scrambling back and out of their way as Óin pulled the covers back from the bed.

“Then I will inspect your wounds one last time with Tauriel by my side before I take my leave.”

Fíli nodded, rolling onto his side and shooting one last curious glance at his brother. He couldn't help but feel like he had an idea of why he was acting like this, dread curling in his gut. Kíli couldn't--... he wasn't--...

… Was he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find [me](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com), and [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) all on tumblr! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sending them a message, too!
> 
> [Youtube video of 'Ibinê Mim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4).  
> [Azhâr's soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari).
> 
>  
> 
> [Elvish poetry found here!](http://http://www.istad.org/tolkien/poetry.html)
> 
>  
> 
> List of Khuzdul / Sindarin in order of appearance:  
> Amad - Mother  
> Madtithbirzulê - My little golden heart  
> Am man darthon a linnon - Why do I linger and sing  
> Nu galad hen fireb - Under this fading light  
> I laiss e-mallorn ernediaid - The leaves of the mallorn are numberless  
> Taur Celon - Forest River  
> Mannur Bunûn - Market of Treasures  
> Lukhûdu'arisî - Lights of sparks  
> Abâhur'abanî - Chemists  
> Mazzulibhêr - Chambers of Learning  
> Zigili'n - Mercury (lit. flowing silver)  
> Ber'ar - Reaction  
> Hadru'arisî - Battery (lit. Box of sparks)  
> Hadur'arisî - Batteries  
> Lukhûd - Lights  
> Gufrajât - Helium (lit. Gas of twittering, named after the effects on the voice and how it mades one sound like twittering birds)  
> Le athae - Thank you  
> Akrâgkharm - Heart-brother (One with whom you share such a strong platonic bond with it is as if they are your brother)  
> Akrâgkharmê - My heart-brother  
> Kakhuf inbarathrag - Goat turd  
> Shamukh - Greetings!  
> Mi targê - By my beard  
> Mae govannen - Greetings  
> An ngell nîn - Please  
> Dôl gîn lost - Your head is empty  
> No veren - Be joyus (lighten up)  
> Peditham hi sui vellyn - May we speak now as friends
> 
> Notes on the poetry:  
> Kintsugi: "Kintsugi (金継ぎ?) (Japanese: golden joinery) or Kintsukuroi (金繕い?) (Japanese: golden repair) is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique. As a philosophy it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise." - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kintsugi  
> Quay: Pronounced a variety of ways, of which ˈkē is one of them


	7. Zannur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the fantastic support you've given, I really don't have words for how grateful I am you're enjoying the story so far! It really encourages and inspires me to keep writing. 
> 
> Please make sure to go back a few chapters to check out the amazing art by [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com) and [Quel](http://www.tosquinha.tumblr.com)!
> 
> And to my two betas who put in a simply unbelievable amount of work, [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com) and [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com), I really couldn't do any of this without your help. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
> 
> The poetry before sections is the work of [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com), and all credit for them should go to her. Another massive shout out to my [Khuzdul Translator](http://www.love-is-a-two-place-predicate.tumblr.com) for her work in this chapter! And thanks to [Shield My Acorn](http://shield-my-acorn.tumblr.com/) for the wonderful photoshop at the end of the letter!
> 
> This chapter is split into 2 parts, 7.1, and 7.2, because it was getting a bit lengthy!
> 
>  [Please come say hi to me on Tumblr!](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)

 

_T.A 2941_

_November 10th_

 

 _Time brings an army of pax dweorda_  
_Legend turned myth steps out, greets, from death's maw_

 

 

Erebor sat silent before them; its single, lonely peak kissed with snow and its trailing, treelike roots spread out and burrowed into the land, stern in the morning sun.

As they'd travelled, the Iron Hills had sunk further and further into the haze of distance behind them before vanishing completely – for a time they were left in the open plains between the two kingdoms until the tip of the Lonely Mountain shimmered into view. The weather had held, for the most part, and no more wandering orcs had disturbed their journey as they strove towards the mountain.

Valka was almost disappointed. She didn't wish for war and death, but a little something to lighten the march wouldn't have gone amiss.

Nevertheless, they were here now. Their caravan had drawn to a halt on the crest of the slope leading down to the main gate of Erebor, the grass beneath their feet already churned to mud.

She realised this must have been the path Lord Dáin took with his army, and the plain in front must have been the battlefield.

The dawn light blushed the mountain in pinks and yellows, frost tickling the muddy grass like a dusting of fine crystal.

She lifted the long, brass horn she'd been given to her lips and took a deep breath, waiting for Thorin Stonehelm's signal. As he brought his hand down she, along with nineteen other dwarves, blew as hard as they could. Five more of her kinsmen carrying massive steel drums brought their batons down on them in quick, synchronised patterns.

The very earth seemed to shake and tremble beneath them, birds rising in squawking clouds from the fields and neighbouring Dale.

Thorin held up his hand again, and as one they stopped.

Valka could see and hear a flurry of activity from Dale. They'd probably woken the menfolk up – but as long as Erebor replied before they started getting too worried and came out – armed – to investigate, then-- …

The answering blare of trumpets, horns, and drums from the mountain sent the birds crying and wheeling again as Valka lifted her fists along with the other dwarves and cheered loudly. Erebor had answered, and had welcomed them.

“Iginnigî!” cried Thorin, urging his ram to trot down the slope towards the opening gates. The carts groaned and squealed into movement, livestock pulling against their ropes at the urging of their drivers – dwarves pushing against the carts to help the rams and oxen move them.

Valka beamed at her father, patting the neck of one of their oxen as they made their way forward. She ignored the crunch of splintered steel and wood under her boots, and the remains of armour – dwarven, elven, and orcish all mixed together.

There would be time to mourn the dead later.

As they drew closer to the gates the sounds of raucous cheering could be heard, feet stamping along the parapets with drums in a familiar sound pattern.

Welcome home.

She laughed in delight as the drums behind her started to rat-a-tat-tat out the response, clapping along as Erebor soared above them, a burning, fierce love stirring deep inside her.

We have come.

Thorin Stonehelm raised his arm, stopping the caravans at the mouth of the bridge. The waters of the Ân Tharkh rushed through the carved riverbeds around the grass they waited on, the wide bridge across the deep waters cracked, but repaired. Above them the gathered dwarves stood silent, a breathless anticipation in the air.

“Khazud Azsâlul'abad! U id'Urâd Zirnul mâti yadi, zai akhâl ra ahas!” He cried, his red hair and golden clasps gleaming.

“Maidmî.”

From out of the dark stepped a figure Valka had only heard about in stories.

Thorin Oakenshield.

As he passed from under the shadow of the mountain the dawn light hit him, and for a second he seemed to glow and burn – the silver armour and mail catching and throwing the sun so brightly Valka's eyes watered. Silver clasps hung in his long hair, a mantle of black fur and blue cloth flowing from his shoulders, and though his beard was short his face was unmistakable.

Durin's features shone from him, as if a statue of the mighty father had come alive and stepped from his pedestal.

Thorin Stonehelm jerked his ram back, fear and confusion flashing over his face.

Thorin Oakenshield, Valka remembered, was dead. Surely this couldn't be Prince Fíli – it was well known the heir of Erebor had golden hair. Could it be Prince Kíli, in his brother's stead? But a crown was set upon the dwarf's brow, and as Thorin Stonehelm opened his mouth a cry echoed out from above them.

“Durin the Deathless! Durin the Deathless!”

Durin the Deathless...? How...? How could it be? Valka's fingers shook as she curled them into fists, her heart pounding against her ribs.

“My boy!”

From behind Thorin rushed a figure Valka knew very well, a loving beam splitting his face and his arms outstretched. Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills. He was also dressed in finery; not quite his battle armour, but every part of him the grand, powerful dwarf she – and all others – admired and loved.

Thorin Stonehelm clambered off his ram, wrapping his arms tight around his father and holding the embrace for a good few seconds. He pulled back, gripping Dáin's upper arms and looking between him and Thorin Oakenshield – the latter having taken a step back, once more draped in shadow.

“Da, I don't-- …”

“Thorin Oakenshield lives,” Dáin said firmly. He kept one hand on his son's shoulder, throwing his other arm wide in welcome, “Durin the Deathless walks among us! Long live the King!”

The mountain shook with the roar of the dwarves in and outside it, Valka's heart rattling around inside her chest even as she lifted her fists with the others before sinking down into a low bow.

“Long live the King!”

The King inclined his head, his features thrown into darkness for a second – and again the similarities between him and a stone effigy of Durin I struck her. Thorin Oakenshield turned on his heel, striding back into the mountain with a shout.

“Prepare for our kin! They are weary after long toil. Bring them food, and let them rest.”

Valka raised her eyebrows at her father, smiling when he blew out a long, slow, quiet breath through his teeth.

“Durin's beard... Of all the things. Durin the Deathless. Blessed are these times indeed,” he nodded – but there was a shadow of worry on his lined face. She gently took his hand, squeezing it tight and smiling brightly.

They were here, in Erebor, and if Dáin had vouched for Thorin Oakenshield's right to rule, then she would follow him. Even if something was tickling between her lungs, a little warning in her heart. Valka kept her hand tight in her father's as they started to walk into Erebor, carts in tow and a wide smile on her face as they were welcomed and received by the cheering dwarves.

She had her father, their wares, and her mother was only a raven away. This would be a time of peace and prosperity – and she would go back to the Iron Hills with tales of Durin the Deathless, and mountain halls filled with knowledge, wealth, and beauty beyond description.

 

 

*

 _Family gathers and sprawls around the hearth_  
_Affections is wrought by veins of the earth_

 

 

 

“But,” Kíli countered, a serious look on his face as his eyes followed Bilbo dipping the tip of his quill into the inkwell, “How do you know Beorn can read?”

“His shelves were full of books,” Ori pointed out from his low seat beside the fire, knitting needles quietly clicking together, “Books of all sorts, and in different languages.”

Dwalin grunted out a noise of agreement, hands clasped over his belly and his eyes closed. He was settled on a comfortable armchair by the hearth and Fíli's cot, the prince asleep against the pillows – the gruff guard looking not too far behind.

Thorin had a childish urge to throw something at the shiny plate of his head – a rock or pebble, to watch it bounce off, Dwalin leaping to his feet with a shout. He was struck suddenly by the image of gleaming red blood on Dwalin's skin, his body still and cold on the floor, the horror in his companion's faces.

Guilt and shame crashed through him, nausea twisting his stomach as he closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers over his forehead. Where had that come from?

“Even if he can read, I still don't think he's going to reply – or give us any seeds,” grumbled the young prince, resting his chin on his arms as he slumped across the table.

The company was gathered in a small room around a roaring fire in the hearth, empty bowls and plates in a wooden bucket for easy carrying back to the kitchens. Bombur had made a special meal for them all, and several members of the Company had insisted they all ate together – like they had on the Quest. Even Fíli had been brought in on his cot. Two bulbs on a wire suffused the room in yellow, adding to the warm glow of the fire.

Thorin opened his eyes again and let his fingers trail across a page of the itinerary given to him by his namesake.

He'd officially greeted the lad in private, thanking him for leading those from the Iron Hills across the plains so successfully, and with so much aid for Erebor. The lad had flushed and stuttered his way through the meeting as Dáin tried to contain his laughter, and by the end Thorin had wanted to fling down the crown and mantle and ask – beg – Dáin's son to see him not as a King, but as an akrâgkharm of his father's.

This was the life of a King, now. He'd always commanded respect, but duty-bound deference knotted his stomach. Respect was something to be earned, not freely given or demanded – and he had proved how easy it was to sink into darkness.

“And here are the individual declarations from those bringing their wares for trade and business,” said Balin, shuffling through leaves of parchment, all written in neat runes.

Bifur huffed out a pleased sound as the little toy soldier he'd been carving lifted its axe with the push of a clever little button on the back. He put it down next to four others, and started on the next.

“Well, I think he'll reply,” Bilbo huffed, starting to write with neat little flicks of the quill.

“We can always try to offer him coin, if he'll accept it,” added Glóin – who was composing his own letters to his family, his brother Óin beside him and propped against the wall as he dozed.

Bofur shook his head, looking up from where he was reclined on the floor across several cushions, fingers never pausing as he whittled a lump of wood. Thorin watched his clever fingers twist and turn the wood, recognising the little eagle figurine start to take life.

“Nah, he's got no use for it. Maybe some nice new beehives, though.”

Dwalin snorted from his chair, eyes still closed, “Got no use for dwarven crafts,” he grunted, “No use for nothing, creature like that.”

Nori waved his brush at the grizzled dwarf, his fingers working through Dori's long hair.

“Plenty of nice trinkets in that house of his,” he pointed out.

“Not that he'll have any left after your sticky fingers've been there,” Dwalin snorted, a couple of the others laughing softly.

Dori rolled his eyes, Nori hiding a smirk as he went back to sorting out his older brother's braids, “I took nothing! Nothing he'd miss, anyway.”

“Perhaps if we offered his belongings back, along with the dwarf who had somehow acquired them, a deal could be made,” Thorin said in a neutral tone, raising his eyebrows and drawing more laughs from the Company.

He'd been reluctant to take Nori on the quest. The dwarf had only just been released from the gaols in the Blue Mountains, and out of sympathy for Dori's situation – and Balin's request – he'd agreed to it. In the first town they'd reached Nori had proved his worth by stealing a set of keys from one of the menfolk, and finding them a warm, hay-filled stable to spend the night when they'd been turned away from every inn and guest house.

Bilbo chuckled and shook his head, “No,” he smiled, “I think I'll quite simply not mention any pilfering whatsoever.”

There were grumbles of agreement before quiet blanketed them, each either doing their own tasks, dozing, or simply basking in the warmth and company of the small room.

Thorin let his gaze travel over all of them. Each and every one had shown him such bravery and loyalty in the face of terrible doom. Even Bilbo, who was still so far from his home. Who was still here, still trying to help.

He realised a second too late he'd been caught staring when Bilbo looked up and cocked an eyebrow, giving him a curious look. Thorin dropped his gaze quickly back to the lists in his hands, shifting in his chair.

“You know,” Nori said to his brother, twisting strands of Dori's hair into elegant, tight braids, “I've already been asked by three separate dwarves whether or not you'd be open to courting.”

“Oh, Mahal,” groaned Dori, rubbing his hand over his face, “No, no, no. Not in the slightest – and you can tell them that!”

The company laughed, Bofur whistling softly through his teeth.

“Just wait until you're not only the most beautiful dwarf in Erebor, but also one of the richest and well-connected,” he chuckled, pushing his hat a little further back on his head, “You'll be beating them away with hammers!”

“The most--” Bilbo started, but he quickly bit his words off, a puzzled look on his face.

Bofur shot the hobbit a disbelieving grin.

“You didn't know? I suppose hobbits don't measure by a dwarf's standards, but you've had the pleasure of being in the company of one of the loveliest dwarves in Erebor – my own brother notwithstanding.”

“Very kind of you,” Bombur mumbled from where he was nibbling on the final crust of a loaf of bread. Dori groaned, flapping his hand at them all.

“Oh, really. Please. We don't need to talk about this.”

“'Course we do!” laughed Nori, “If Bilbo's an honorary dwarf, how's he meant to go about not knowing the basics? Dori's got the soul of a grumpy old sow, and a face crafted by Mahal himself-- ow!” he yelped as Dori pinched him – rather viciously, to Thorin's eye.

Bilbo gaped at them before he turned to Thorin.

“But surely you--...”

Thorin tried to ignore how half the room had gone very, very quiet – even as Kíli burst into loud cackles.

“Uncle!” he crowed, “No! Why on earth would you think _that_?”

Bilbo opened and closed his mouth, his cheeks burning red as he flapped his hands.

“Well, the whole...! Durin! And--”

“--I think,” Balin interrupted, nothing but amusement on his face, “This is an area of cultural misunderstanding. Thorin does indeed strongly resemble Durin, but Durin is not – to our kind – considered the most fair of the fathers.”

“He isn't?” asked Bilbo, a little weakly. The scepticism on his face was oddly flattering, though, even as Kíli hooted with mirth.

“Not by a long stretch, laddie,” Balin smiled, “To our eyes, Thorin's nose is too thin.”

“And not long enough,” added Dwalin.

“Short beard,” Glóin muttered.

Óin cracked open an eye, looking Thorin up and down.

“Scrawny.”

“Durzu sigin,” said Bifur cheerily.

“High cheek-bones,” Bofur chuckled.

“Delicate feet,” Kíli grinned, sly mischief written all over his face.

“And you,” Thorin grumbled, “Still look like you should have a toy in one hand, and your mother's in the other.”

Kíli made an indignant noise, the Company bursting into laughter. It died down into soft chuckles, Balin clapping Thorin's shoulder. He relaxed into the touch, going back to making little marks on the lists of items. He knew all too well his features were too fine, too delicate.

In some aspects decidedly undwarvish, if he were honest.

As a lad it had bothered him – all the way up until his mother took him to the library and sat him down, pulling out an ancient, illustrated tome. It had been their creation story, the leaves so delicate he'd been terrified she'd rip them. She hadn't, of course, and as she'd turned the almost translucent pages to show him the illustration of Durin I, even at the tender age of twenty two, he'd been struck by the likeness in their features.

Now looking in the mirror gave him an eerie feeling.

Either way, it didn't matter. He would be judged on his actions, not his features – and he had no interest in courting. He never really had, and with his brain filled to the brim with the weight of a Kingdom, he couldn't see his heart changing.

“What does a hobbit look for, then?” Kíli asked after a short time had passed.

Bilbo paused, tapping his fingers against his chin as he thought.

“Well... Big feet, of course. Nicely brushed curls on the top. Shapely ankles... A good head of hair, too, I should add... Good taste in food and clothing – though I suppose that would depend on what one considered good taste... It all really depends,” he finished, a small frown on his face and the feather of the quill tapping against his chin.

“On what?” Bofur asked, sitting up a little more.

“On what you find valuable in another, naturally. Whether it's personality or intelligence, or looks, or wealth, or occupation... The things that matter to you,” listed Bilbo, ticking them off on his fingers as he spoke, half-written letter forgotten on the table.

Bofur lit his pipe, sparks dancing from the bowl.

“And what do _you_ look for, then?”

Bilbo snorted loudly, flapping his hands at Bofur and shaking his head. He dipped the quill quickly in the ink.

“Oh, no. No, no. Not me. Far too old for all that nonsense, really – far too-- …” Bilbo cut himself off with another shake of his head, going quiet. After so many months on the road, the signs of Bilbo not wishing to continue a conversation were clear to them all.

“Anyway,” Dori finally grumbled, “Stamp out any more talk of all that, if you would. I'm not interested.”

Nori nodded, attaching the final clasp into his brother's thick hair.

“Duly noted.”

“And... Done!” Bilbo exclaimed, signing his name with a flourish before pushing it over to Thorin, “Here, have a read and put your signature on it as well, please.”

Thorin reached across to pull the letter closer, scanning the words.

 

_Dear Master Beorn,_

_I hope this letter finds you and your charming animals in good health, despite the winter chill in the air! I never had a chance to thank you properly for your involvement in the unfortunate battle we found ourselves in, and I should have liked to thank you again for your hospitality._

_I shan't bore you with pleasantries, but rather shall cut to the truth of the matter. We are eager to once again bring life to the mountain, and replant the fields around Erebor – but supplies are low, and we find ourselves without a single nut, seed, or berry with which to sow. I would be forever indebted to you if you would provide us with some of the above from your excellent storerooms._

_I won't insult you by offering you gold or dwarven crafts, no matter how fine or valuable they are to others, but instead you have my word that I shall enclose my very secret and treasured honey and spice cake recipe, which I baked at your lovely home, and which we shared one morning, in exchange for the aforementioned supplies._

_Thank you very much for your time, and I hope we may one day meet again,_

_Sincerely,_

_Bilbo Baggins &_

 

Thorin dipped his own quill in the ink before signing his name alongside Bilbo.

 

[ ](http://shield-my-acorn.tumblr.com/post/134006324819/i-read-chapter-7-of-azh%C3%A2r-and-thorin-signed-his)

 

He couldn't help but pause, re-reading the signature again; Bilbo Baggins, and Thorin, son of Thráin.

Bilbo plucked it back, nodding to himself as he read it through. He folded it up, accepting the little wax sealer from Glóin with a thanks. Thorin watched as Bilbo lifted one of the small candles on the table, pouring a few thick drops onto the parchment and stamping it closed.

“There,” he said in a satisfied tone, turning it over to write 'To Master Beorn' in beautiful, flowing letters. Bilbo dropped it down in front of Glóin and then leaned back in his chair with a long stretch and a yawn. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm and stood, finishing what was left of the weak ale in his mug.

“And now I'm going to bed, unless there is anything I must do before morning?”

“Nothing that can't wait, laddie,” smiled Balin, adding a clause to the contract he'd been drafting to be sent to Bard for signing.

“Well, then good night to one and all,” Bilbo nodded, lifting his hand in a wave as he drew his warm, grey overcoat tighter around his shoulders and headed over to the door.

A soft chorus of goodnights followed him, Thorin's eyes lingering on the door even as it closed. He stifled a yawn against the back of his hand, turning again to his lists.

He had work to do still.

 

 

 

*

 _Gracious warden keeps studious watch o'er charge_  
_Athelas brews a bond by way of sparge_

 

 

 

Kíli took a deep breath and pushed open the door as quietly as he could, dwarven mechanics letting it swing with nary a squeak. He peered around it and into the quarters Fíli had been moved to now he was more stable. His brother was fast asleep in the bed, face peaceful and lit by the warm embers burning in the grate.

Curled up on a wide, cushioned chair next to the hearth sat Tauriel.

For a second Kíli was frozen, struck dumb and motionless by her beauty and the rush of his feelings. Her eyes were closed, fiery hair draped over her shoulders and delicate feet curled underneath her.

He opened his mouth, but just as he was about to speak Tauriel's eyes flickered open and she looked over to him. His knees went weak, breath rushing out of him in a whoosh and lips stretching into a wide grin as she smiled softly.

Oh, he adored her.

Love was singing, ringing through him, and he felt weak and giddy from it. He held up a finger to his lips and reached out his other hand to her. Tauriel breathed out a silent laugh and stood – so gracefully and elegantly Kíli felt dizzy all over again – and then her warm fingers were curling around his.

“I am not allowed to leave the prince's bedside,” she whispered, “The guards outside will have questions.”

Kíli shook his head, slipping his fingers between hers, “No, they won't. I sent them away for the night.”

Tauriel raised an eyebrow at him, her thumb tracing his knuckles and her voice so soft he almost couldn't hear it at all.

“I cannot leave his side. What if he needs something?”

“He's got a hand-bell to ring,” Kíli pointed out, “I'm not taking you far. Besides, he's slept through every night since the operation – and then some.”

Tauriel glanced back over at Fíli. Then she turned back to Kíli, a little smile on her face and fire in her twinkling, green eyes.

“And where do you plan to take me?”

Kíli beamed up at her, squeezing her hand and tugging her closer to the door. She followed, and a thrill rushed through him. He made sure the door to Fíli's quarters was slightly ajar before leading Tauriel across the narrow corridor to a small room opposite. His brother's recovery wing was tucked behind the King's Halls, where his own room – and Fíli's own, when he got better – was. Though Smaug hadn't managed to worm his way into them, they still needed cleaning to bring them up to a safe standard for his brother's health. In the meantime these were easier guarded with quicker access to the medical bays in an emergency.

And their placement kept Tauriel out of the rest of the mountain.

Thorin and Balin had grudgingly accepted her presence after Gandalf, Bilbo, Óin, and himself had all vouched for her character and worth, but still distrust hung in the air. A guard was to sit outside Fíli's room, and to escort her around Erebor. For her safety and well-being, they'd insisted, but Kíli knew it was to keep a watch on her movements.

He pushed open the wooden door, pulling the little lever to turn on the single bulb hanging from the roof.

Tauriel had been shown the lights on Kíli's insistence – after all, how could she look after Fíli by nothing but candlelight, and were dwarves meant to run ahead of her to turn the lights off should she move around Erebor? She'd taken them remarkably well, listening intently to the explanation and agreeing to keep them secret to outsiders, but Kíli thought he could see a touch of fear and shock in her eyes.

Mahal, her eyes.

He lead her over to a long, padded chair and sat down on one end, taking both her hands in his as she followed him. The room was mostly empty, used mainly to store supplies and odds and ends – shelves stuffed with old, dusty linens and blankets.

“You'll be able to hear if he so much as coughs from here, won't you?” Kíli murmured, tracing his thumbs over her delicate knuckles.

He ached to kiss each and every one.

“I will,” she replied, her gaze dropping down to watch his fingers move over hers.

Silence stretched between them until she grasped his hands, pressing them between her own as pain flickered over her face.

“They will never accept us. I showed too much when I thought you gone, and I doubt there isn't now a single elf in the Greenwood who does not know my heart,” she breathed, a tremble in her voice and her eyes bright, “And when the dwarves here find out? What then? Will I not be banished from the mountain? Will your people not banish you, too, or take away your titles, your dignity?”

Kíli swallowed hard, bringing her hands up to brush his lips over her knuckles. Her breath caught, eyes closing, “You will suffer for it, you will be shamed because of me. I could not bear it if you were to lose your family, your home.”

He pressed another slow kiss to her knuckles. She smelt like tree-sap and dark, deep roots in the earth, like sleeping forests and moonlit glades.

“You suffered for it. You risked your family and home for me – more than once. You risked your very life for mine. It's a small price to pay for love.”

Tauriel shook her head, eyes closing.

“No, it is not. It's too much; too much to throw away on a dream. It is folly,” she whispered, “There is nothing here for us but pain.”

“Tauriel,” said Kíli, turning her hands over to press a kiss to each open palm even as misery fired through him, fingertips tingling with it, “I won't ask for what you can't give, but I love you. I love you more than anything. From the first moment I saw you until my last, I will love you.”

“Your last will come long before mine,” she whispered, two tears rolling down her cheeks and her breath catching raggedly, a tremble in her lip and chin, “I have already almost tasted the pain of your death. If I had to again, I-- … I couldn't bear it...”

Kíli reached for her, his hands gentle as he cupped her cheeks and drew her down until her head was resting on his shoulder, arms wrapping slowly around her. Tauriel's hair was softer than any silk, and the smell of fresh, outside air seemed to crackle along every strand, sweet and sharp.

“I'll die one day whether you love me or not,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the side of her head and closing his own eyes. Tauriel was warm and heavy in his arms, her fingers soft on his back.

She felt like home.

“I do love you,” Tauriel finally said, some of the tension easing from her as she slumped against him, “I feel it in every breath of me.”

“My mother told me, when my father died, that dwarves – when we return to stone – we go to the Halls of Mandos. We wait there with our families until the world comes to an end, and then we will return to help rebuild it,” Kili said, stroking his fingers gently over the back of her head, over the little braids woven into her hair.

Tauriel drew back, her eyes wide and lashes clumped together from the few tears she'd shed, hands resting on his shoulders. He smiled widely at her.

“I'm pretty sure the elves are going to be there, too. Wouldn't really make sense if only we were allowed to come back, right?” She breathed out a little laugh, her own lips tugging up at the corners into a wide smile.

“I suppose it wouldn't,” Tauriel whispered. Her gaze flickered down to his mouth, Kíli's face suddenly burning. He lifted his hand to cup her cheek, swallowing hard.

“Can I-- …?” he breathed, hesitating. She moved before he could, her lips brushing against his and leaving sparks in their wake – the strike of a hammer on metal in the forge, and he trembled as if he was being formed under her strength.

As she drew back Kíli tilted his head to press his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as she did the same.

“Amrâlimê,” he whispered, both hands on her cheeks. He could feel the puff of her breath against his lips as she laughed.

“Gi melin,” she replied. Kíli pressed another gentle kiss to her mouth and then her forehead, drawing her closer so she could lean against him once more.

A thousand years would be worth the wait. Countless thousands of years he would wait for her, if she let him. Even if he had to wait endless lifetimes for her in the Halls of Mandos, somehow they'd see it through, and he'd spend eternity in her arms.

 

 

 

*

 _Memories of fire fell heart and heaven_  
_Fear harks with twisted voices - trangression!_

 

 

 

Bilbo tugged desperately at his calf, trying to pull his foot out from the swirling, sticky gold running over his feet like thick, hot honey. He was trapped, the gold plucking at his fingertips as he tried to free himself – to no avail.

_I see you..._

Thorin's voice, echoing around him and the halls of the treasure room, a ragged snarl. The hoard rose suddenly in waves around him, as if Smaug was slithering under the gold and gems, pushing it up in roiling cliffs and valleys. Coins and precious stones rained down on him as he tried to turn, lifting his arms to shield his head and managing to turn around.

There, standing in front of him, was a dragon so large it made Smaug seem nothing more than a dragonfly. It was black, rising like a mountain range in the endless, stretching walls of the chamber. Streaks of white ran down its scales, snow-capped peaks over its spines, ridges, and wings.

A blue eye, gleaming like a winter moon, stared down at him.

_I see you... Thief in the shadows... Shire rat..._

The dragon's voice was unmistakably Thorin's. Bilbo fell backwards as he struggled violently against his trapped feet. The liquid gold trapped his hands before he could even draw breath, rising swiftly up to his elbows and dragging him down into it as he fought.

_I have weighed the value of your life against my treasure and found it worth nothing. You have been used, thief in the shadow, a means to an end._

“No...! No!”

It leaned down, bringing its head closer to him. Bilbo fancied a single scale was as large as his whole smial, teeth as tall as ancient trees. It opened its mouth – an endless, gaping void ready to eat him whole.

_There is something about you... Something you carry... Something made of gold, but far... more... precious...!_

From the depths of the dragon's maw came burning fire – a glowing ring exploding outwards into a single eye wreathed in burning, wheeling flame – the sound of screams and wails unlike anything made by any earthly creature ringing around him as heat burst over his skin, and he was being charred and eaten and swallowed whole and--!

Bilbo woke with a shout and sat bolt upright, sweat slicking his body and sticking his hair to his forehead as he gasped raggedly for breath.

A nightmare.

Another damned, blasted nightmare. He'd had enough of the stupid things, enough of waking with his knees knocking and eyes stinging. Bilbo rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes, bringing his knees up so he could rest his forehead against them.

His heart was still pounding, and the words from his nightmare echoed around his head. Like pebbles in a bucket, as Ori would say. He let out a little snort, wrapping his arms around himself and taking a few deep, steadying breaths.

Bilbo pushed himself out of bed after a second or two, grabbing the dwarven overcoat and pulling it around his shoulders with a shiver as he walked over to the hearth in the little room he'd been given. Thorin had promised him a much better and bigger living space as soon as it was available, but really, he was quite happy here. The room was suited to his size, and when the fire was burning, it was warm.

But now it was cold, and the coals were ashy embers in the grate. He snuffled, wiping his nose on the back of his hand and huddling down by the hearth, adding another few lumps of coal and a log, stirring at them until the fire crackled back into life.

“You're a fool, Bilbo Baggins... You faced down a real dragon and fought in a real war, and a few silly nightmares are worse? Hah! Nonsense... Utter nonsense... The worst that could've happened happened, didn't it? And then he came back. So stop being so ridiculous...”

The image of that burning eye flashed across his vision again as he patted absentmindedly at his pocket for the nice little ring he'd picked up in the Misty Mountains. Bilbo pulled it out, it resting warm and comforting in his palm as he crouched by the fire.

“... Such a curious little thing...” he murmured, not quite sure who he was speaking to. Still. It was a useful, pretty little ring. Excellent for getting you out of a tight spot.

Bilbo dropped it back into his pocket, trying to shake the memory of Smaug's eye – how it had flashed into a wheel of burning fire, the deepest, darkest, coldest void at the centre as the ring had burned his finger so viciously he'd pulled it off without a second thought to dragon fire and death.

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes and dropping his head into his palms.

“Come on, now,” he whispered to himself, “You'll feel alright come morning. Darkness is a strange time, full of shadows and creeping creatures, but night will always pass, and darkness is only a fleeting thing. You can always find a light to guide the way.”

The image of his mother's face, warm and full of love floated into his mind. She'd always said those words to him after a nightmare, when he'd stumbled into his parent's bedroom in floods of tears, desperate to be held and comforted by them.

Bilbo stood up with a heavy sigh, stirring the coals and ashes in the grate until sparks whirled and danced. He put the poker back and turned around, walking to his bed and clambering into the still-warm sheets.

He'd go for a nice walk, tomorrow. Some fresh air to clear his mind and chase away the cobwebs. Thorin could do with one, too – and maybe they'd find some fresh herbs, or mushrooms, and he could make his mother's stew. They could all have supper together again.

Good company, good cheer, and good food.

Exactly what they all needed.

 

 

 

*

 

 _With honest wisdom comes grief sin ceras_  
_Radiance was lost upon this terras_

 

 

 

“Sleep does not invite in those who do not knock.”

Thorin jumped as Gandalf's voice came from behind him. He looked over his shoulder, heart beating fast inside his chest. Thorin turned to face the wizard, putting down the plate of meats and bread he'd been holding, the room lit only by the small lamp he'd placed on the table previously.

A sudden restlessness had struck him as he'd sat by his fire earlier, unable to sleep – and unwilling to spend the night trying. He'd gone for a walk instead, ignoring the guard trailing him, and let his feet guide him where they willed.

Which had turned out to be the little, private kitchens to the royal wing, where a small amount of food was being stored. Thorin had already eaten his fill for the day, and while he felt guilty for taking more than his share, there was a grumbling in his stomach, and it didn't seem like it would pass anytime soon.

“I have knocked enough and had no reply. There are better ways to spend my time than calling on that which wishes to elude me.”

“Such as wandering around Erebor in the middle of the night?” Gandalf asked, shuffling into the room and sweeping off his tall hat.

The wizard put it onto the table and crouched by the little cooking fire. He clicked his fingers a few times, a flame catching in the coals. Gandalf nodded to himself and placed a small iron tea-kettle over the flame, adding tea-leaves from a pouch in one of his pockets and a teaspoonful of honey from a jar on the tabletop – all the items looked comically small in his fingers.

Thorin took a bite of his bread, sitting down at the stone table with a few chairs haphazardly around it.

“Am I not at liberty to walk in my kingdom as I see fit?”

“Questions will be asked. Rumours will spread.”

“As if they haven't already,” Thorin shot back, biting into another hunk of bread with a scowl, “I know what stories follow me around.”

Gandalf looked over, raising both his bushy eyebrows.

“Do you? And what may those be?”

Thorin gritted his jaw, chewing solidly at the bread for a long moment and swallowing before he spoke.

“That a mad king roams Erebor. That I should have died and been laid to rest, not brought back by Mahal knows what evil... A cursed king on cursed gold – as mad as his grandfather and father before him,” he spat, venom and bitterness thick on his tongue.

He dropped the bread he was holding onto the plate, dragging the palms of his hands over his face. Like a skilled healer drawing poison from a wound, Gandalf could drag the thoughts and feelings he kept closely guarded out from behind his lips.

The wizard plucked the kettle from the fire, pouring the steaming tea into two mugs and pushing one over. Thorin took it, sipping glumly.

He had neither the heart nor the energy to be lectured by a wizard tonight.

“You think very little of yourself, Thorin Oakenshield. Are you not also the dwarf who led his people across Middle Earth to prosper in the Blue Mountains? Who led the quest to slay a dragon and reclaim a homeland? Who faced down orcs, and wargs, and goblins, and a dragon, too – though I did tell you to wait outside more times than I like to say,” the wizard added, with a grumble.

“I am,” Thorin nodded, “And the dwarf who was prepared to see his kin slain for the sake of gold and gems. The dwarf who has been resurrected by some necromancer. Just another mad king, like my grandfather. Like my father.”

Thorin took another sip of the tea, gut twisting even as he took a bite of the salted pork on his plate, it tasting dull on his tongue.

Mad like his whole cursed line.

Thank Mahal he'd never had heirs to pass the sickness down onto.

“Your father was not mad,” said Gandalf softly, “Not mad at all. Not even at the very end.”

Thorin looked up sharply, slowly swallowing his mouthful.

“... What end? You said he hadn't been seen in months, you said--”

“--I said what was true at the time.”

Silence stretched between them, Thorin's heart pounding in his chest. He pushed the now empty plate away from himself as Gandalf lit his pipe.

“What do you know about my father? What have you not told me?” he breathed.

Gandalf didn't reply, taking a few deep pulls and blowing out perfect smoke rings, each one making Thorin's fingers itch for his own pipe.

“He was at Dol Guldur, where the necromancer had made his lair. The Enemy had taken him, or lured him there – which I do not know – all for the ring on his finger. A ring of power, one of seven given to the dwarf lords by Sauron himself.”

“I know the lore,” Thorin interjected, clasping his fingers together to stop the shake in them. He'd been in Dol Guldur. Had been. Thorin swallowed hard, “So he is dead, then.”

Gandalf nodded his head, just once.

Like Azog's blade all over again, pain pierced him. He felt breathless, his ribs crushing inwards and the food he'd just been eating felt stuck in his throat.

Dead. His father was dead.

“Thráin loved you, Thorin. He was so very proud of you. He told me himself – it was all he cared to speak about, in his last moments.”

Thorin's breath caught in a tell-tale hitch as he buried his face in his hands.

Of course he'd been proud. He hadn't known what his son had become, how he'd failed and almost paid the price of Thráin's grand-children's lives for it.

“He died fighting great evil,” Gandalf continued quietly, “He endured terrible torture for decades and did not speak a single word to Sauron. He died a hero, in his own right.”

“I should've looked there, I should've--...” Thorin's voice cracked, chest heaving and blunt nails digging into his temples.

“Even if you had made it through the wild and dangerous forests and into the abandoned fortress, it was cloaked by a great and terrible magic. You would have walked right past him many a time in your search and never seen him. There was nothing more you could have done.”

Some note in Gandalf's voice had Thorin lifting his head, shoulders heavy with grief. The wizard's eyes seemed like the night sky – dark and eternal, ancient beyond measure, his lined face kind and gentle.

“I wanted to save him,” whispered Thorin, voice hoarse.

Gandalf nodded, reaching out to gently grip Thorin's forearm.

“We all did.”

The wizard drew back, producing a second – and clearly new – pipe from somewhere in his cloak, filling it with sweet-smelling tobacco and handing it over with a flourish. Thorin numbly took it, fingers feeling thick and clumsy, letting Gandalf fiddle with the bowl until it was alight. He took a slow, steady draw and let the sweet smoke warm him from the inside out.

“Old Toby,” Gandalf smiled, “The finest pipeweed on Middle Earth. A hobbit speciality – very dearly guarded. I came across a little on my travels, and have been saving it for when it is needed most.”

“Indeed,” replied Thorin, rolling the thick smoke over his tongue and exhaling, “Bilbo shared a bowl or two with me along the road after my ‘dwarvish coal-smoke’, as he called it, had run out.”

“Did he now?” the wizard asked, blowing a few perfect smoke rings in different colours and sending them spinning around their heads, “Did he indeed...”

Thorin simply inclined his head, leaning back against the chair and concentrating on his pipe.

He'd known, really, that whether his father had been alive or dead he wouldn't have been the same dwarf Thorin remembered with such fondness and love. He'd known the father he'd loved so dearly had died in some way when Smaug had come, and again at Azanulbizar.

It didn't stem his grief.

“... Was it quick?” he asked as the last few embers of weed in his pipe burnt out and his tea passed from lukewarm to cool.

“Instant.”

Thorin nodded his head, putting the finished pipe down and pushing away from the table to stand.

“I think I will return to my chambers now. I am grateful for the news regarding my father. He will be honoured accordingly.”

“Quite so,” the wizard nodded, standing too and placing his hat back on his head, “I will be leaving Erebor soon. Before the winter sets in.”

Thorin hesitated, one hand on the door-frame.

“And will you be taking Bilbo back to the Shire with you?”

“That is a question for him, though I shall certainly escort him if he so wishes.”

Thorin swallowed, inclining his head. He left the kitchens at a quick pace, ignoring the guard trotting after him and heading straight for his room. As the door shut behind him – the guard back in her place at the end of the corridor – he exhaled slowly, putting a few more coals into the dying hearth before removing his boots and overcoat, changing back into his sleepwear and climbing into the cold bed.

His father was dead. Killed by the same Enemy who might be responsible for his own resurrection – and whether his father had been proud of him or not, if he'd but seen what his eldest son had become...

Thorin rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow as hot tears pricked at his eyes.

No. His father would not have been proud.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find [me](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com), and [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) all on tumblr! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sending them a message, too! Another massive shout out to my [Khuzdul Translator](http://www.love-is-a-two-place-predicate.tumblr.com) for her work in this chapter!
> 
> [Youtube video of 'Ibinê Mim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4).  
> [Azhâr's soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari).
> 
> Notes on the poetry:  
> NB: pax dweorda: means "peace of the dwarves" a la pax romana "peace of the romans"; dweorda is a word of my own making.  
> NB: sin ceras is a term that means "without wax" and was used to mean a sculpture that was made without the aid of wax casting, so it has natural mistakes that some claim makes it more poignant. The second line is a play on words for the phrase "terras irradient;"  
> terras irradient let them illuminate the lands Or "let them give light to the world". An allusion to Isaiah 6.3: plena est omnis terra gloria eius ("the whole earth is full of his glory"). Sometimes mistranslated as "they will illuminate the lands" based on mistaking irradiare for a future indicative third-conjugation verb, whereas it is actually a present subjunctive first-conjugation verb.
> 
> List of Khuzdul and Sindarin used in order of appearance:  
> Iginnigî! - Forwards!  
> Ân Tharkh - River Road  
> Khazud Azsâlul'abad! U id'Urâd Zirnul mâti yadi, zai akhâl ra ahas! - Dwarves of Erebor! We from the Iron Hills have come with peace, and aid!  
> Maidmî - You are welcomed  
> Akrâgkharm - Heart-brother  
> Durzu sigin - Long face  
> Amrâlimê - I love you  
> Gi melin - I love you


	8. Lakhdur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the fantastic support! I really don't have words for how grateful I am you're enjoying the story so far! It really encourages and inspires me to keep writing, even in the darkest times. Thank you again!
> 
> Please make sure to go back a few chapters to check out the amazing art by [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com) and [Quel](http://www.tosquinha.tumblr.com)!
> 
> And to my two betas who put in a simply unbelievable amount of work, [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com) and [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com), I really couldn't do any of this without your help. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
> 
> The poetry before sections is the work of [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com), and all credit for them should go to her.
> 
> This chapter is split into 2 parts, 7.1, and 7.2, because it was getting a bit lengthy!
> 
> Keep an eye out for the second original song in this chapter. I wrote the words and the amazing, talented [Laer](http://laer-aewen.tumblr.com) wrote the music!
> 
>  [Please come say hi to me on Tumblr!](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)

 

  _T.A 2941_

_November 11th_

 

 _Idols shown without their wax_  
_Shadowy miasma hounds the king's track_

 

 

 

Dáin clapped his hand down on his son's shoulder in greeting, placing a laden tray down onto the table. A few chairs had been drawn up to it, and Dáin reached to pour himself a cup of mint-infused tea with a grunt. It was early in the morning and he had asked Balin to join them in his quarters for breakfast, and a private conversation.

“Did you sleep well, bekhazê mim?” he asked, taking a sip of his tea as the boy piled two plates with food.

Thorin Stonehelm nodded, taking a bite out of an apple and leaning back against his chair. His bright red hair and beard were in simple braids – ones Dáin had put in himself last night as he'd spent the evening with his son, delighting in the company of someone he loved – and had missed – so dearly. Of course, when it came to dressing for the day he'd help his lad with whatever style took his fancy, but for an early morning breakfast and meeting, plain clothes and simple braids would do.

“Glad to hear it. Beds are softer after travel, eh?”

“Much,” Thorin chuckled, taking another bite of his apple, “And to sleep beneath stone again was a welcome change.”

Dáin laughed and reached for his plate, taking a hearty bite of the buttered bread, speaking with his mouth full.

“Aye! No denying that – you know, when I was a lad, we had to spend a week sleeping in a forest as we marched to war! Under _trees_ and--”

“--Da, I know,” his son groaned, pouring a cup of mint tea for himself, “I _know_. You tell the story every time you leave home.”

“I do not!” Dáin exclaimed, affronted, “Are you trying to say your old man's turning to stone between the ears and repeating his stories? All of which are fascinating, by the by, quite fascinating!”

Before Thorin could confirm or deny Dáin's words, the door opened and Balin strode in. He had clearly dressed for the day ahead, his bright red robes perfect, beard and hair brushed into soft waves.

“Ah, Balin,” Dáin grinned, standing and clasping the other's hand in greeting. The older dwarf smiled widely, his grip as strong as it ever had been.

“A good morning to you, Dáin,” he nodded, “And to you, Thorin Stonehelm.”

Balin let go of Dáin's hand to grip Thorin's firmly, the young dwarf bowing his head.

“And to you, Master Balin! Thorin Stonehelm, at your service.”

“Just Balin is fine, laddie,” he chuckled, inclining his head a little, “At your service. Now, I believe breakfast was mentioned, and I have deliberately not taken any beforehand.”

Dáin waved his hand at the tray and sat again, reaching for his tea as he watched his son fuss to fill a plate and mug for Balin.

The lad was doing a good job not to act as flustered as he'd be feeling inside – after all, Dáin had brought him up on stories of Thorin Oakenshield, and of Dwalin and Balin, sons of Fundin and some of the fiercest warriors from Erebor's ranks. He was meeting the heros from his bedtime stories. It was normal to be nervous, and want to make a good impression.

He still held dear the memories of meeting Thráin and Thrór for the first time. The way his heart had pounded and his fingers had shook as he'd bowed to those great dwarves, to those fearsome warriors and towering kings. They'd been so kind to him, treated him like the great-nephew he was, and not like a troublesome child of fifteen with no right to be in their company. The memory of their kindness had kept him wading through the mud and filth of Azanulbizar, had kept him swinging his hammer even when he'd thought himself too exhausted to move, had kept him driving forward when all hope seemed to disappear and darkness had flooded his heart.

“Now,” Balin said around a mouthful of ham and eggs, leaning back in his chair, “For what reason have I been summoned to your chambers? I doubt you'd call me here simply for breakfast and a chat, my friend.”

“Shrewd as always,” Dáin grumbled, easing his iron foot up onto a stool and rubbing idly where the wood and metal met flesh, “I shan't drag it out, then. Thorin was wandering last night, so I've been told. The halfling's making impressive efforts to get him to eat as he should – Mahal knows we've all fought and lost that battle before – and Thorin's using every last trick he knows to pretend he's fine. But he's not sleeping, he's barely eating, and I don't believe for a single moment he's as fine as he says he is, the bugger.”

Balin didn't reply, his jaw working as he chewed his mouthful. Thorin Stonehelm had gone very still, fingers clutching his own plate. It was a sad thing to do, bringing his lad into this. Nevertheless, it had to be done. Dáin had learned the hard way how far a hero could fall, how those who had seemed stronger than a mountain range could crumble like sand-structures.

Better his boy learned now that to idolize was to isolate.

“I cannot say I have any great insight into Thorin's mental state,” the old dwarf sighed, wiping his mouth on a napkin and sipping his tea, “But if you must know... I am worried. There is something on his mind. Whether it has any legitimacy, I do not know. Somehow I think I do not ever want to know.”

“Da told me--” Thorin Stonehelm said, hesitating until both his father and Balin had nodded at him to continue, “... Da told me some magic in the Arkenstone brought him back to life. Surely he's wondering what magic, same as us all.”

“Aye, he's always been a worrier,” Dáin grunted, rubbing his fingers against where his prosthetic was joined to his leg.

Balin heaved a sigh, clasping his hands together on the table, his head a little bowed.

“Maybe this time he has good cause to be worried. Mahal knows I am. I'm old, Dáin, and aye, I'm a warrior, but above that all I am a scholar at heart. I've read a thousand tomes on spellcraft and not once in all my one hundred and seventy eight years have I come across a magic strong enough to raise the dead – and certainly not in full flesh. There was but one.”

Thorin's fingers twisted the end of his braid – an old habit of the lad's, something he used to do when he was frightened, or unsure.

“The Enemy,” Dáin muttered, downing the rest of the tea. It brought no warmth or comfort to him now, the mint bitter in the back of his throat.

“The Enemy,” Balin nodded, “And not even he could fully raise the dead. It is written he could grant a terrible immortality – one that would corrupt the flesh and heart and bind the soul to his will. He could commune with the deceased, and twist those under his order into ghastly, undead creatures.”

Balin took a long gulp of his tea, his old face lined and set with worry and fatigue. Dáin reached forwards, pouring him another cup.

“Thank you. Now,” continued Balin, “There was one other with the power to summon the dead. He went by many names – few of which are remembered today. But the most well-known title of his is the Witch-King of Angmar.”

Dáin felt a shudder slip down his spine. He'd had his history lessons as a boy, though he'd paid little attention save for the stories of battle and war; but this stirred a memory like a ringing bell.

“One of the ancient kings of men,” Thorin breathed, his young face painted with fright, “One of the servants of Sauron, one of the nine given a ring of power.”

“Yes. He tortured and twisted the very hearts of men, elves, and dwarves, and sent them fleeing across Middle Earth as spirits. It is written they live on, infecting tombs of men – the Barrow-downs close to the outskirts of the Shire are still haunted by them. These spirits, so it is said, can seep into the bones of the dead and move their bodies as their own.”

Sickness tugged at Dáin's stomach, appetite disappearing. The room seemed colder by the minute, and his leg ached something fierce.

“No,” he said, firmly, “No. That is not Thorin. I know my cousin – I know him. I'd know if some foul _thing_ crawled inside his body, I'd know.”

“Everything evil was born innocent,” Balin murmured darkly, taking another gulp of his tea. Thorin Stonehelm shook his head, tugging at his braids once more.

Mahal, he shouldn't have included his little lad in this. Thorin was too young – only seventy five, for Durin's sake! He didn't need the weight of this on his shoulders.

And, Dáin thought to himself with a sigh, if he'd left his son out, the lad would've given him grief until the end of his days. In some ways they were all too similar.

“You think Thorin will turn into one of those undead things, then?” he asked, a headache brewing around his temples. He was too old for this. Balin raised his eyebrow, a wry, tired look in his eyes.

“Is he not already an undead thing? He was dead, and now he is not. A jewel which turned his mind and heart in life is changed after laying on his corpse, and something weighs heavy – and secret – in his thoughts. Two wizards and two mighty elves fought the Enemy, who called himself the Necromancer, as well as his evil servants at Dol Guldur, only four day's travel from Erebor on a good pony – and quicker on a horse. Not to mention Smaug, a war-creature of Sauron's, sitting on and infecting the gold held within this very mountain!

“No, laddie,” Balin said, a terrible heaviness to his voice, “It is too much for me to believe Mahal brought Thorin back out of love for his child, or any other such involvement from the Valar.”

Dáin exhaled, rubbing at his face with both hands. It couldn't be true. He refused to believe it. Not his cousin, not Thorin.

“But what interest would the Enemy have in Thorin Oakenshield?” asked his son, worry all over his young face.

“A stronghold next to Mirkwood, for one,” Balin pointed out, “A kingdom in the north. The Enemy seeks control over Middle Earth – why wouldn't he want a great dwarf king at his fingertips?”

Thorin Stonehelm frowned, clasping his hands together.

“He needs the Ring of Power to rule though, doesn't he? My history teacher, Master Hrothgir, said when Isildur cut the ring from his finger he took it, and it was lost to the Anduin river. Sauron was banished and diminished without its power – never to be more than a wandering spirit.”

A rush of pride lifted some of the chill from Dáin's bones as he leaned over, clapping his son on the shoulder and squeezing. Thorin had always been so good at his lessons, such a sweet, eager little lad, willing to learn whatever his teachers would teach him.

“Aye, laddie, that he does. We'd better hope, then, that the ring is lost forever,” nodded the elderly dwarf.

At that moment there was a knocking sound from outside. Dáin twisted in his chair, calling out permission to enter.

Bilbo Baggins pushed open the door, dressed in his patched trousers and dwarven overcoat, a smile on his face.

“Please pardon my intrusion, but Thorin's asking for the both of you. Something about the reopening today, I think. Should I tell him you're on your way...?”

“If you would, lad,” Balin smiled, standing up and brushing himself down, “I’d quite finished – and I need to convince Thorin the outfit he must wear today is indeed what he must wear today.”

The hobbit laughed, opening the door for Balin.

“Hah! Well, good luck with that. He spent a good ten minutes at breakfast telling me how envious he was of my overcoat, and the lack of heavy, hot, stifling clothing I was forced into.”

Balin laughed merrily, patting Bilbo's back and following him from the room. He glanced back over his shoulder, levying a weighty look at Dáin and Thorin before closing the door behind him. Silence fell over the room, the food in front of him now unappealing.

“I don't believe it,” Thorin said, suddenly. Dáin looked over to him, the fire burning in his son's eyes bringing a small smile to his face.

“No,” he said softly, covering his lad's hand with his own and squeezing, “No, I don't either, my boy. But we'll keep a good eye on him – for his sake, no one else's. That's what family does, aye?”

“Aye,” the young dwarf nodded. Relief and hope was written all over his features, his grip strong on Dáin's hand. Whether his son was too young or not, it was done now. He'd involved him.

Somehow, though, he was glad. If the worst came to the worst and he had to fulfil his promise to his cousin and send him back to the depths of death, at least he'd have his son by his side.

 

 

 

*

 

 _Cheerfulness stirs in the Mannur Bunûn_  
_With the rise of work-song comes new life, soon_

 

 

Valka wiped the sweat from her brow, putting her hands on her hips and looking around the Mannur Bunûn. Most of the floor had been cleared of rubble and debris, and all the wares undamaged by time or the dragon had been catalogued and placed into storage. The sound of construction rang around the chamber - the crash of hammers, the scrape of stone, and smatterings of work-songs around them all.

The lights she'd heard so many stories about hung bright above their heads. Their group was around twenty in number, a mixture of their caravan and the warriors who'd come with Dáin before – as well as two members of the Company of the King, Masters Glóin and Bofur – the latter merrily leading a pocket of dwarves in a song as they worked.

Other groups were dispersed throughout the mountain. Forty or so were down in the harbours, another forty in Dale, and groups of tens and twenties were spread out in the residential areas. The younger dwarves were with Master Balin, working to refill the hadur'arisî and bring light back into the mountain.

Across the hall a dwarf raised her hand to wave at her, and a smile broke out over Valka's face.

Bera. She'd met the dwarf the night before, and had invited her to share the meal her father had made. She was from the Iron Hills, but had come with Dáin's soldiers, leaving her family behind. Now the fighting was over, she'd spent her days helping where she could, and had struck up an odd friendship with the princes, Fíli and Kíli.

They'd spent the night talking and laughing, quickly becoming fast friends as they swapped stories on fighting orcs and battle techniques, the antics of the princes – and Prince Fíli's subsequent decline in health, the elf who stayed in Erebor for the prince's health, as well as stories from the Iron Hills.

Valka waved cheerily back and then returned to her work.

She looked to her father, watching as he chipped away at stone blocks with his chisel and hammer, creating bricks that would lie almost seamlessly together and with incredible strength.

They were rebuilding the stall his grandfather had owned before the dragon had come. Her father had always spoken of Erebor with such fond memories, spending months here with his parents. Though they'd lived in the Iron Hills, his father often spent time in the Lonely Mountain, despite having employees working under him.

Her father had been in the Iron Hills with his mother when Smaug had laid Erebor to waste, stealing away his father's life amid the flames and destruction, and their trade.

Valka leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to Valkur's brow. He looked up with a smile, squeezing her hand.

“There's my girl,” he said cheerily, “We'll have this stall up in no time – and then we'll see about the tailor's room on the textile floor. I've still got the papers for that, too. Should be no problem setting up the main shop there with all the cloths and materials, and then selling finished bits and pieces down here. Now, help me put these in place – see the markings on the floor? I've etched it out, just follow my lead, love.”

“Alright,” she laughed, crouching down to help her father start to move the blocks of stone into their place under his guidance. Families with property in the Mannur Bunûn had been granted permission to fix their own livelihoods first, though she and Valkur had spent a good few hours helping to clear and sort the rubble and wares before they'd moved on to their own stall.

It was a start to a new life. She'd grown up on tales of the mountain, grown up wondering about the treasures of Erebor – not all of them gold or gems, as her father had often pointed out, but knowledge and learning. It had been a beautiful, living, breathing place.

She wanted to be a part of it. She wanted it restored to its former glory, she wanted to see it pulse and breathe, warm and full of life and light. Right now it was cold, and... Well, lonely. It didn't feel like home. Not yet.

But it would. With her father by his side, it would feel like home. It was like he always said, good things come to those who wait, and who work. She wasn't terribly good at being patient – not good at all, if she was honest – but she could work.

Valka pushed another stone into place, smiling as her father started to sing. She would work hard and help build something beautiful again.

 

 

 

*

 

  _Misaligned chakras throw off harmony_  
_Under stately crown lies one who's lonely_

 

 

Thorin took a slow, deep breath in through his nose and exhaled steadily out through his mouth. His stomach squirmed like a snake inside him, twisting into knots and wrapping around his lungs.The crown sat heavy on his brow.

Dwalin had hammered out the dent he'd put in it when he'd cast it down before the battle, but it still didn't feel right. He'd speak to Balin about getting a new one forged for the coronation, not this piece of gold and bad memories. Thorin tugged at the heavy mantle over his shoulders, fingers idly touching over the gems studded into it in constellations, gold and silver thread embroidered to link the stars together in the patterns all dwarves knew.

The Hammer... The Axe... The Crown... The Raven... The Anvil...

“Thorin?”

He jerked out of his thoughts, turning to face Balin and snatching his hands back from his cloak like a child caught with his fingers in the biscuit jar.

“We're ready if you are,” his old friend said, a kind smile on his face, “It'll be over and done with in no time, and you'll be out those clothes before you know it – though you will have to get used to wearing them, again.”

“I know,” Thorin murmured, heaving a sigh and squaring his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height.

Balin nodded, reaching up to brush down the fur and make sure Thorin's intricate braids were laying where they should over his chest, gloved fingers gentle and caring.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, laddie. No reason not to wear these robes, no reason not to wear the jewels of kings,” he said softly, hands stilling on Thorin's upper arms.

“You think too highly of me as always, my friend,” Thorin whispered, gripping Balin's elbows tightly.

The old dwarf sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a few seconds.

“It is natural to love gold and gems,” said Balin quietly, his gaze firm but kind, “Mahal made us so, he gave us delight and buried wonders deep in the earth for us to find and treasure, for us to love. The sickness that took your grandfather's mind and your own was not the same love, Thorin, though it may have felt like it. Defeating that sickness... It didn't take Mahal's gift from you. It is natural to love what he created for us. There's no shame in it.”

Thorin swallowed hard. As always Balin managed to cut right to the heart of it, as if he was carved from crystal and Balin could see everything plainly.

“They are waiting,” was all he managed to say in response, letting go of Balin's arms and stepping back. The old dwarf gave him a steely look before nodding and clapping his hands sharply together two times. A moment later there was an answering blast from a few trumpets, and drums started up a steady beat.

Balin turned, walking out the doors as Thorin followed. Beyond the waiting chamber was a short corridor that bent sharply, narrow and climbing steeply. It had been built simply to provide a private, protected walkway between rooms and places reserved for royalty. Hundreds existed, all over the mountain.

Ahead Thorin could see Kíli in clothing and armour he sickly realised had been Frerin's. Frerin had been tall and broad for his age - moreso than even Thorin had been, in his youth - and his nephew was still lean and short for his.

He tore his gaze away, looking instead at Dwalin standing in full ceremonial armour – a true king's guard.

Thorin couldn't help but crook a little smile. He could see how proud his friend was, how he held himself tall with absolute surety. He inclined his head to Dwalin, stepping past him to stand between the two brothers, his nephew behind him. Fíli was, of course, still too weak to attend and had been entrusted to the care of the elf healer and three armed guards.

Another blast sounded out on the trumpets. Balin started to walk.

With Dwalin clinking and clanking behind him the four strode from the corridor and out onto a walkway along the walls of the Shulnu Gabil, heading toward the King's Balcony.

A crowd of almost six hundred dwarves stood below them, hand-lanterns and repaired bulbs hanging from the ceiling, burning with light. It was evening, and all had gathered to witness the ceremony, coming from their stations in Erebor and back from Dale. It was a celebration, after all, and the group of workers in the Shulnu Gabil had laboured tirelessly, faster than any had expected.

The river sat once more in its bed, the rubble and debris removed from the waters. It flowed again, the waters clearer, and the risen flood had drained away to leave the harbour as it had been. The grey stone had been scrubbed and repaired where possible, and the great pillars had been reinforced.

But still, Smaug lingered. Charred patches high on the walls had yet to be cleaned, and the sheen of gold, silver, and gems had been stripped by the dragon to leave the room bare.

As Thorin stepped up to the balcony the crowd burst into cheers and calls, the trumpets and drums echoing out triumphant notes.

He held up his hands after a few breathless seconds, the crowd falling silent once more. His heart was rattling around behind his ribs, and his tongue felt too thick and heavy for his mouth. Thorin let his hands drop down to the railing of the balcony, gripping it tight to steady himself.

“Erebor was once called the greatest Dwarf Kingdom on Middle Earth, renowned for its strength, for its wealth of knowledge, and its innovation. It was the centre of trade, of business, of enterprise. Its halls were filled with light and warmth.”

They seemed like distant dreams. Vague, and untouchable. As if they had never really existed at all.

“I would see those days again.”

The roaring cheers and whistles along with the clapping of the dwarves made the stone under his hands shiver as he looked out over them.

“Tirelessly you have worked on the restoration of this great mountain home. With few supplies and many injuries, still you have worked. I cannot thank you all enough. It is with pride that I declare the Shulnu Gabil usable, and the Ân Tharkh open. May Erebor once again welcome boats from the Iron Hills and from the Grey Mountains.”

Balin's written words flowed easily from his tongue. He was well used to learning by rote, and Balin kept his speeches short and to the point. None of it stopped the fluttering jerks of his heart, or the leaden feeling in his limbs as he lifted his numb hands in response to the roaring of the crowd below.

His gaze caught suddenly on a small figure on the edges of the crowd. Bilbo, with Bofur and Bifur on either side of him. The hobbit's face seemed to have caught the light, his smile wide and eyes warm as he lifted his hands a little higher, clapping along with the rest of them.

Some of the tension seeped from Thorin's bones, his breathing coming a little easier. He brought his hands back down to the railing as the trumpets sounded again, the drums sending their beats echoing around the chamber.

Two small groups of dwarves heaved on heavy chains attached to the two gates at the mouths of each end of the harbour: The Mekhem Zirin and the Mekhem Thafar. Slowly the iron wrought gates lifted with groans and squeaks, clanking into place. The dwarves hung the chains up on their stands, the jubilation from the crowd all but tangible in the air.

He didn't take his eyes off Bilbo's face. It was the one thing keeping him from feeling like he was about to tumble down from the balcony.

“Uncle,” Kíli breathed from beside him, “Are you alright?”

“Fine, Kíli, I'm fine,” Thorin breathed, pushing himself back from the railing and fighting not to stagger. He reached out to grip Kíli's shoulder but curbed the movement at the last moment, clasping his hands behind his back instead.

The confusion on his young nephew's face caused his stomach to squirm.

“Balin, is there more I need to announce?” he asked, voice low.

“No, laddie, that's all,” replied Balin, the cheery smile on his face not quite meeting his eyes.

“Then I will take my leave. Make sure there is food and ale enough to go around tonight. I would have them celebrate, and be merry.”

The older dwarf nodded before ducking down into a little bow and turning to hurry down the corridor. Thorin turned his head, looking over the crowd again to catch a last glimpse of Bilbo as he followed Balin from the balcony. But the space between Bombur and Bofur was empty, and he couldn't help the small frown tugging at his lips.

No matter. The ceremony was over and he could claw himself out of the choking, drowning furs and armours he was swaddled in. He could take a little tea, some food, and some time and space to breathe, and to think. He just needed a little space. A few moments to himself.

He just needed to pull himself together, and shake the shadows from his mind.

 

 

 

*

 

 _By the hearth lies polishéd memories_  
_Sitting beside new made on their journeys_

 

 

“Blast the damn thing,” Bofur groaned, heaving up a lump of rubble and waddling over to the corner of the room, dropping it down onto the pile he'd made with a grunt. He wiped the sweat from his brow, looking to where his brother was crouched over a stove as he tried to get it lit.

They were in what had been the Mazzul Mahiblêg, vast kitchens used to prepare food for Ereborian feasts, or for events held across the mountains. Within the room were hundreds of smaller stations, often rented by stall owners or vendors who traded in edible wares in order to make their stock.

But now they were cold and dark, used only for storing supplies thanks to their central position within the mountain.

Bofur groaned again, sitting down on the pile of rubble and flopping back against it, staring mournfully up at the ceiling.

“You know, no one mentioned the whole rebuilding bit. None of this nonsense in the stories, eh? Thought I'd be living in the lap of luxury right about now!”

“How did you think Erebor was going to be fixed, brother? Old Smaug was going to do the dusting with his tail?” laughed Bombur.

Bofur chuckled at the image of the dragon in an apron and with a feather-duster attached to his tail, head bowed and a very sorry expression on its face as it dusted the rubble. He sat up with a groan, rubbing his hands over his face.

A couple of lamps lit the area around them, showing their progress in the dark. Even without any outside indication of time, he knew it was getting later and later into the night.

A feast had been prepared on campfires in the great hall earlier in the evening, a commemoration for the reopening of the Ân Tharkh. It was a chance to celebrate, and Mahal knew they all needed one. Casks of elven wine and dwarven ale had been recovered, and shared, and the chambers had – for a short time – been warm, and light, and full of song.

Bofur burped and patted his belly. With a sigh he pushed himself onto his feet, going over to the next lump of rubble. Not much needed to be done, really. The worm hadn't bothered with the kitchens, and Dori had pointed out most of the damage was from Smaug's thrashing deeper within the mountain.

Bofur heaved another lump of rubble over to the pile, hat askew and his tunic rolled up to his elbows. His body was warm and head a little fuzzy from the ale, but there was another hour or so left in him.

After all, he thought, he and Bombur _had_ volunteered to repair the  Mazzul Mahiblêg in their spare time.

Ori – Mahal bless his wee heart and soul – had admitted he'd been spending time working outside his designated post. He’d been in the library whenever he had a moment, repairing and cataloguing and re-writing. The little dwarf's admission had been inspiring and, fuelled by a generous, hot meal and a couple more mugs of ale than they'd had in a while, many of the dwarves had signed up to repair areas of Erebor listed as “non-priorities” when they could.

“A-hah!” cried Bombur, standing back as the little stove caught light, “Oh-hoh! There we are, brother! This one works a treat. I'll be able to do it all on here.”

Bofur let out an answering cheer, trotting over to take a look.

“And Bilbo'll be able to come up in the morning and use it?”

“Without a doubt. But now, brother, I'll be making the food for tomorrow's--”

“--Master Bombur! Master Bombur?”

From behind them came a shout, a young dwarf hurrying through the darkness with a satchel on her back and a lamp in one hand. Bera. The nice lass from the Iron Hills who'd spent so much time helping the princes in their recovery. He beamed, lifting his hand to wave at her as she hurried to them.

“Over here! Shouldn't you be sleeping?”

“Oh, Master Bofur! I volunteered to run the mail from the rookery round the mountain when I could,” she beamed, opening her pack and bringing out a thick envelope with Bombur's name written on it, “And there's one for you!”

Bombur took it with a beam, clutching it close to his chest for a moment.

“My greatest thanks, Miss Bera,” he said, reaching into one of his many pockets and pulling out a little leather pouch with a few biscuits in it. He handed it to her, a smile on his kindly face.

“Oh, I can't--”

“--Please, a little something for your troubles. Baked fresh this morning!” smiled Bombur, closing her fingers over the pouch. She hesitated before she nodded, smiling back and bowing deeply to them.

“Thank you. I'll be off, now! I have a few more to deliver before I sleep – and some more for tomorrow, when I discover who is who! Letters are hard to deliver without a system,” she admitted,tugging at the braids in her beard, “But I was thinking of carving something with lots of holes in it, so I can place it in the main room and engrave names on, and sort and store the mail in there for collection.”

Bofur smiled widely, clapping her on the shoulder.

“Fine idea, lass. Let me know if you need a hand.”

Bera smiled widely up at him and nodded, slinging her satchel back over her shoulder.

“Thank you! I will. A goodnight to you both,” she added, ducking in another bow before turning around and jogging off. Bofur and Bombur watched her go, warm smiles on their faces.

“She's a good lass, she is,” Bofur chuckled, pulling off his hat to scratch his head as his brother grunted out a noise of agreement and started opening the envelope.

He pulled out one main letter and several smaller ones written on scraps of parchment, sitting down on a stone stool and spreading them out on the countertop.

“Halla and company?” Bofur asked. His brother nodded, pulling the lamp closer so he could read. From his wife and children, unsurprisingly.

By Mahal, he missed them. All fourteen of the little ones – and Halla herself, of course. He got on with her like a new pick in a gold mine, always had done. She was just like Bombur in so many ways, cheerful and kinder than most, with a heart of pure mithril. Even though they'd married so young it had been a perfect match since the first time they’d met.

“How are they all?” He sat down on a stool opposite his brother, picking up a few of the little letters written in childish runes with a smile.

“Good, they're good... Travelling with the last caravan out of the Blue Mountains before the winter sets in. They've just passed the Shire – picked up some lovely bits and pieces...”

Bofur laughed, bringing out his pipe and filling the bowl. He tamped it down with his fingers and lit it, inhaling steadily.

“Bilbo'll be glad for that, if they picked up enough to share.”

His brother laughed along, turning the letter over to read the rest.

“All the little ones are well – some are taking better to the road than others. Some are still having nightmares, but Halla says they're in much better places now.”

Bofur nodded thoughtfully and blew a few smoke rings out into the dark.

“Aye, well. Been a few years since the accident now. Natural for some to be moving on. Poor wee things,” he sighed.

Mahal, the accident. A cave-in, brought on by the rushing spring waters of the Forlond and the worst storm any dwarf could remember. A whole mine had been flash-flooded, the force of the icy waters bringing down the pillars with unbelievable strength and crushing a chamber under the unsupported weight of the waters and rock.

At least the dwarves in the mine had died quickly, or so they'd been told.

Whole families had drowned down there. Ered Luin was primarily a mining range, and most crafting was handled in a different area from the mines. Himself, Bifur, and Bombur worked mainly in the mines, though they all dabbled in tinkering and crafting, too. The only reason he and his family hadn't been among the dead was thanks to the birth of Bombur's first daughter – a little sister to three older brothers.

Those lost had been like sisters and brothers, though. It was a tight little community in the copper mines, where they often shared meals between them, and took care of all the children while the older members of the families worked. Mahal, he'd loved it. Him and Bombur had always been the ones they'd clamoured to stay with.

Between his stories and jokes and toys and Bombur's cooking and kindly heart, their home was always a welcoming place for all.

He himself had been the one in the house with all the little ones – all fifteen of the wee precious gems, ranging from a few years to twenty – when the news had come. He'd been the one holding the sobbing, wailing little things as the white-faced messenger had listed those who wouldn't be coming home that night.

Some had family, still. Aunts and uncles, grandparents, cousins in different parts of the mountain who took them in with all the love and kindness in the world.

But some had no one. Nine wee hearts broken, nine precious children left utterly alone.

Bombur had declared to them all that night, a brand new baby on one arm, his own three sons beside him, and the nine tearful children sitting on the soft rug around his chair, that he hadn't gained one child today, but ten. That he and Halla were going to take them all in, and love them as if they were their very own, and open his house to them all.

He'd never been more proud of his brother. Tears had filled his eyes as the children has sobbed, climbing into Bombur's arms and clinging to him, burying their little faces and hands into his beard and soft belly as he'd done his damned best to hug them all as tight as he could.

As Bombur prepared the stew that night, keeping the kitchen alive with singing and dancing, Bofur had cleared out his own room to set up beds until every child had a place to sleep. He'd put warm rocks in the centre of each bed, and on each pillow he'd put a little toy from the stock he'd made to sell in the Marketplace.

It had taken a long while to get each child into their bed and asleep, warm and with a new toy on the pillow or not. He'd spent the night moving between the three rooms with beds set up, comforting and soothing those waking in tears back to sleep while his brother and wife got some much needed shut-eye with a brand new bairn beside them.

Bofur sighed, crooking a smile as he read a little letter from Flóri, the youngest lad Bombur had taken in.

 

_Deer Papa Bombur an Unkl Bofur ilo ve yuu an miss yuu lot we r in a beeg kart!_

 

It hadn't been easy. They'd never made much coin, and with ten new mouths to feed they'd had to stretch the food out the best they could. Other families had helped, of course, and when Thorin had heard about what they'd done he'd come down personally to visit.

Meeting the Prince had been life-changing. He was like a central pillar, tall and firm, but there was kindness and sorrow in his eyes. He'd given them a weekly stipend to help cover the costs of food, clothing, and bedding for each adopted child as well as a one-off lump payment for their kindness, and a promise to back-date the stipends until the day of the accident.

He'd been fair, and kinder than any of them had expected. The prince had accepted a mug of ale – his bodyguard Dwalin standing the whole time at the door like a silent, angry bear – and had sat at their table. But what had really warmed Bofur's heart towards him, not just as a prince but as a good, kind dwarf, was how easily he talked to and entertained the children.

You could measure a dwarf's heart by how kind they were to children, and Thorin had had all the patience in the world for their questions and stories.

He'd follow a dwarf like that into the mouth of a dragon, if needs be.

Luckily, Bofur thought as he finished his pipe and handed the letter from Flóri back to Bombur, there'd been no dragon mouths to walk into, and somehow they'd all survived.

“Best get to bed now, brother,” he smiled, putting his hat back on his head and standing, tapping the ash from his pipe out into the ashes of a long-cold hearth, “I believe we're in Dale tomorrow. You'll need your strength for that.”

“Aye,” Bombur sighed, tucking all the scraps back into the envelope and folding it closed. He slipped it into his pocket and stretched, “I'll be down here a wee while longer – things to prepare for tomorrow.”

Bofur nodded, clasping his brother in a tight hug for a second before he pulled back with a wide smile.

“Then I'll see you in the morning.”

“In the morning,” Bombur smiled, patting his shoulder.

 

 

 

*

  _T.A 2941_

_November 12th_

 

 _Worries ensconced in loving plotting_  
_Allayed by companionable hearts talking_

 

 

 

 

Thorin heaved a long-suffering sigh as Kíli lead him round another corner.

His youngest nephew had come to him early in the morning, just as he was getting dressed. He'd told him not to have breakfast, as it was to be eaten with the Company – and also to bring the gift for Bilbo. Apparently they were going to hand them over to him this morning.

Balin's insistence on walking him down to the Mannur Bunûn and having him choose a suitable gift for Bilbo's birthday late the night before had suddenly made more sense.

Still, he'd been planning to procure some sort of gift for Bilbo in his own time, and give it when he so chose. It wasn't, as he'd dryly pointed out to Balin, as if he'd forgotten, or was unwilling. In the end he hadn't been able to find anything he'd deemed suitable and had instead spent a few hours in the library, searching there instead.

“Kíli, do you know where you're taking me?” Thorin finally asked, “We're now going in circles.”

“We're not lost! I'm just--... This is the scenic route,” his nephew grinned, looking decidedly sheepish. Thorin raised his eyebrows.

“... The scenic route? This is a plain granite corridor. It barely has carvings. The lights are broken,” he added, gesturing to the two lamps they were holding, “If this is what you call 'scenic', then--”

“--Here we are!” Kíli called out, loudly. In front of them stood a gilded wooden door. If he remembered correctly it lead to a chamber which had been often used for private family functions by various Lords – close to the royal quarters.

Very close, in fact. No more than a five minute walk from his rooms, though Kíli had been leading him around for closer to twenty, through all the winding little passages not meant for general use.

“We're here!” Kíli said again, even louder as he put his hand on the doorknob and started to push it open, gesturing for his uncle to go in first.

“I heard you the first time,” Thorin grumbled, stepping past Kíli and into the room, “There's no need to shou--”

“--Surprise!”

Thorin jerked back, heart hammering in his chest as a cheer rang out from in front of him.

In the middle of the room stood two tables, one with a pile of delicately wrapped gifts and one with plates of food. Bulbs hung from the ceiling, filling the room with light. The Company was gathered, most seated on chairs around the tables, but Thorin's eyes were drawn to Bilbo as he took a slow breath through his nose to calm his hammering heart.

“I said I'd think something up, didn't I?” the hobbit smiled, hands clasped behind his back and an entirely too pleased expression on his impish face, “Besides, you might be able to deny yourself a good birthday party, but you can't deny a hobbit his – and it makes no sense not to just share the occasion, don't you think?”

“... So when I said I neither had the supplies or the heart for it,” Thorin said slowly, stepping further into the room, his heart slowing. Even Fíli was here, he noted, propped up in an armchair with blankets around him.

Bilbo laughed. For a second all the worry and fatigue still clinging to the hobbit's features lifted, and Thorin felt the tension slip from his shoulders.

“Well, I took that to mean you didn't want a lavish public spectacle, and that the only option was a surprise birthday party. Now, come and sit. There are presents to hand out.”

“Presents?” Thorin asked a little weakly, obediently following Bilbo's gestures to sit down and putting his lamp on the table.

“Of course! Now, it turns out we've a rather different idea of present giving. We hobbits,” Bilbo said, a little grandly as he drew himself up taller and brushed his hands down his grey overcoat, “Give presents to others on our birthdays. To friends and family, and so on.”

Thorin couldn't help but glance over to Balin to confirm this.

Balin nodded, an amused smile on his face.

“So it would be, then, wholly improper to give you a present on your birthday?” Thorin asked.

“Oh, absolutely. But seeing as this is a _shared_ birthday, I'd be a little insulted if you didn't have one for me, as it's your birthday, too. And,” Bilbo continued, an almost smug smile on his face, “This year I shall also accept birthday gifts given in the dwarven fashion. Seems a shame to let such thoughtfulness go to waste, after all!” he laughed.

He couldn't help but breathe out a chuckle in response, reaching for his large pocket to draw out the wrapped gift.

“Ah-ah!” Bilbo said, “I'm going first. I've got rather more to hand out, you see.”

Thorin drew his hand back, holding up his palm in a gesture of peace. Kíli put down a plate of breakfast in front of him – ham and eggs, with toasted bread and butter to the side, and a few honey-cakes. Thorin's stomach let out a little grumble in response. He picked up a fork with a murmured thanks to his nephew, starting to eat as Bilbo walked over to the table laden in wrapped gifts, picking one up. Each had a little tag with a name written in the hobbit's beautiful script.

The tension drained from his shoulders as he watched them open their gifts from Bilbo, the cries of delight and thanks from his companions and their chatter and laughter warm around him. For the first time in days he felt relaxed, and even if his sleep had been restless and short, he didn't feel quite so weary.

He watched with idle curiosity as Fíli opened his gift of a book on Erebor's mechanics and a plain notebook, an excellent gift as his eldest nephew had always had a keen interest in engineering and crafting. Kíli had received another book – stories, or poems from the look of it, though the young dwarf had put it quickly in his backpack.

Óin had been given a handwritten recipe for some hobbitish herbal tea, Glóin had been given a beautifully crafted leather coin pouch, Dori a fine tea set, Nori a book of Ereborian maps, and Ori new wool and needles.

Watching Dwalin open a delicately wrapped fiddle bow had him chuckling again. The last one had survived the Goblin Tunnels and Azog, only to be sat on by Dwalin himself at Beorn's house. Balin had been gifted a new writing set, Bifur a wood-carving set, and Bombur a new collection of wooden spoons.

As Bofur had opened the thin, dyed paper to reveal a beautiful set of handkerchiefs the room had exploded with mirth, and his own chuckles had turned to proper laughter.

Then Bilbo turned to him with a wide smile.

“It's tradition that those sharing a party exchange gifts last, you know, so if you don't mind I'll hold off a little longer.”

“By all means,” Thorin said, taking a sip of the peppermint tea Kíli had poured for him, “I'd hate to impose on hobbit tradition.”

Bilbo laughed, taking a generous bite of his own breakfast before happily accepting the wrapped packages being handed over by the dwarves.

Fíli and Kíli had gifted him books written in Westron on Erebor's history, and the rest of the presents seemed to follow the same pattern of thought. Dori handed over a book on Dwarven customs and etiquette, Bifur had found a book of songs, Glóin had written out an explanation of Ereborian currencies and approximate values – as well as prices for common items – and Óin handed over a recipe for his very own willowbark tea.

Ori had found a beautiful set of quills and inks, and Nori had given him a beautifully engraved comb. Dwalin had given him a sword-cleaning set for Sting, and Balin had told Bilbo an armchair just like his one in the Shire was being put in his room later in the day.

Bombur handed over several small bottles of Ereborian spices and seasonings, and once again laughter erupted out from the Company as Bilbo opened Bofur's gift only to reveal an almost identical set of handkerchiefs to the ones he'd given previously.

The hobbit thanked them each profusely in turn – giving and accepting hugs and back-pats from each member of the Company, a wide smile on his face.

Then Bilbo turned to him, and Thorin felt his stomach tug in nervousness. He swallowed and cleared his throat, moving to stand and holding out two wrapped items, one bigger than the other.

“Thank you,” Bilbo smiled, “Two's a little unusual, but I'll let it slide this time,” he added. He took the gifts, setting down the smaller to unwrap the bigger first.

It was a book Thorin had found in the library, an incredibly old tome written in Westron, and titled 'An Introduction to Khuzdul.’ He suspected the original dated all the way back to the First Age, while this was clearly marked as an early Third Age reproduction. Still, the leaves were thin and the cover was a little warped, and it showed its age – and rarity.

“Oh! But I--... I thought... Outsiders weren't supposed to...” Bilbo blustered, eyes wide with surprise.

“Thorin,” Balin said, a small frown on his face, but Thorin spoke again before Balin could interject.

“Bilbo has gone above and beyond to earn his place as an 'honorary dwarf', as I believe Nori put it not so very long ago. He has earned the right to his share of the treasure, but also to his share of our home.”

A quiet had fallen about the room, and Thorin's gaze was focused on Bilbo's hands clutching the book.

“I name him dwarf-friend. Bâhu-khazâd. He may go wherever he pleases within the mountain, and he shall be privy to our ways, our culture, and our language, if he so chooses. If anyone should take issue with this, then...” he looked up, catching Bilbo's eyes, “Then they can bring their concerns before the King.”

The hobbit's mouth was a little open in surprise, but as several members of the Company let out hearty cheers, his expression of shock melted into something much warmer.

“Well. Thank you. I suppose I'll need some lessons, too, though. How on earth I'm supposed to pronounce some of the words you lot come out with is beyond me, but I-- … I shall give it my best. Thank you,” he said again, nodding his head a few times and blinking rapidly, “Well! Now! And there's something else, too? Goodness me, really, what an odd birthday I'm having – two months late and with such strange customs!”

Bilbo moved to put the book down delicately on top of his little pile of presents.

Thorin didn't miss the way he quickly drew the back of his hand over his eyes and took a deep breath as he reached for the second, much smaller gift.

As the hobbit's little fingers moved to unwrap it Thorin was seized by the sudden urge to snatch it back – along with the book. To apologise for overstepping, to leave the gathering and pretend none of it had happened. He was making a fool out of himself, and-- …

Bilbo tipped it into his palm, confusion flashing over his features.

“What is it...?”

“It's for the precious thing you carry in your pocket,” Thorin rasped. It was too intimate, and he'd dealt Bilbo too great a betrayal to present him with something like this.

But the hobbit looked up sharply, taking half a step back as his hand fluttered up to press over his pocket.

“P-Precious? I! I have no idea what...!”

Thorin frowned, his own internal battle forgotten at the look of fright on Bilbo's face.

“The acorn you carried. Do you... not still have it...?”

Had he imagined it? Had Bilbo lost it, or thrown it away?

Humiliation flooded him. He opened his mouth to apologise, but the hobbit's face relaxed dramatically.

“Oh! Oh, the--! Oh! Goodness, yes, I--... I still...” Bilbo scrabbled in another pocket as he spoke, laughing and shaking his head, “I thought you meant--... no, never mind, it's nothing, I'm being quite silly-- Ah! Here it is!” he finished, pulling out the little acorn with a dramatic flourish.

“It's a mesh locket on a chain,” Thorin said, reaching forwards to unhook the tiny, delicate clasp. The locket was silver, the mesh thin, swirling strands of metal designed to show whatever was inside while keeping it safe.

Bilbo nodded, letting Thorin open it before he gently pushed the acorn into it, the fit almost perfect.

“It's lovely,” Bilbo smiled as he pushed the tiny clasp back into place, “Though I can't help but feel it looks a little...” he trailed off, turning it in the light.

Thorin cracked a little smile.

“Amateur?” He asked, huffing out a laugh as a tell-tale look of guilt flashed across Bilbo's face, “That's because it is. I forged it myself, over a hundred years ago. I'd always planned for it to be a gift for someone.”

“Oh,” Bilbo breathed, and for a moment he seemed impossibly fragile, as if a single breath would shatter him. Then he smiled widely and lifted the locket so he could attach the chain at his own nape, it hanging down his chest. He looked at the locket one last time before tucking it just under his shirt.

“Well,” the hobbit smiled, “Thank you. I should've gone first, you know, mine are nowhere near as grand!” he laughed, handing over the final wrapped parcel.

Thorin took it, careful as he opened the fine paper to reveal a pipeweed pouch – and a sweet, heady smell. He opened it, huffing out a laugh.

“Pipeweed,” he smiled.

“Old Toby, I'll have you know! The finest in the Shire. A little something to help you relax every now and again – goodness knows that coal-smoke of yours doesn't do anything except give one a frightful headache!” Bilbo smiled.

Thorin opened the pouch, breathing in the fragrant, almost familiar smell. It was packed full, incredibly generously so.

“Thank you,” he said, looking up and crooking another little smile, “Your gift--”

“--I do,” Bilbo interrupted suddenly, clasping his hands behind his back, “... Have one more. I know, I know! Terribly improper, but, well, it's hardly a traditional gift and these are hardly traditional circumstances. Would you please take a seat?”

Thorin cocked an eyebrow but did as he was told, fastening the pouch closed again and slipping it into his pocket as he sat back down – the rest of the Company following his lead. Bilbo cleared his throat, taking a sip of his tea. He cleared his throat again and clasped his hands behind his back.

“It's just a little something I wrote – hardly a proper gift, but, well.” Bilbo took a deep breath, and started to speak, his voice lilting and soft.

“ _Not all that glimmers is golden,_  
_And some who wander become lost._  
_The stone that is strong has not fallen,_  
_The forge is not scarred from the frost._

 _From the smithy a flame shall be woken,_  
_And out from the shadows he'll spring._  
_Remade shall be heart that was broken,_  
_The crownless again shall be king._ ”

Thorin’s breath had caught in his throat, his mouth dry and his fingers numb against his knees. All he could focus on was Bilbo's face, the hobbit's emotions flickering by too quickly for him to comprehend. The lines of the poem echoed around and around in his head, drowning out the claps and comments from the Company.

“I, ah...” Bilbo faltered, bringing a bit of paper out from his pocket and hesitated in handing it over, “I jotted it down for you, if you'd like it. You don't have to accept it, of course, you know how I am – it just sort of popped into my head and I had to write it down, but if it's not to your tastes or if it's, um, improper then-- oof!”

Thorin moved without any real thought process, wrapping his arms tight around the hobbit as he hugged him close and breathed in the smell of Bilbo's hair – pipe-weed, wood-smoke, tea-leaves, and a touch of honey. He swallowed against the roiling sea of emotions crashing through him, jaw working for a moment before he could finally speak again.

“Thank you,” he rasped.

“It's quite alright,” Bilbo murmured, his voice low and soft against Thorin's ear and his hands warm where they patted at Thorin's back.

He drew back, gently gripping the hobbit's shoulders.

“Akhminruki astû.”

Bilbo laughed, pressing the folded piece of paper into Thorin's hand, “I'm going to assume that means 'thank you', but I shan't do anyone the disservice of trying to pronounce it. Thank you in return for your lovely gifts. Now! While you're receiving your gifts from the others, I'm going to have my breakfast.”

“Of course,” Thorin nodded, stepping back from Bilbo and sitting heavily down on his chair again, tucking the paper into his pocket.

The multitude of emotions still roared and swirled around his mind, but he kept them all at bay as his companions started to hand him gifts with warm well wishes.

Dori had given him a very sturdy pair of boots, covered in silver rather than gold, and Nori had found a set of small knives that could tuck neatly into them. Ori presented to him a pair of knitted gloves, Bofur a wooden, intricately carved plate, bowl, fork, and spoon set.

Bombur handed over a box filled with honey biscuits, and Bifur's gift was a little wooden musical pipe set, each one carved to produce a single note and used to give a starting pitch when songs were to be sung – his own lost in the Goblin Tunnels. Glóin had found a book with sketches of his parents and grandparents in it – something that brought a lump to his throat as he looked down at their portraits – and Óin gave him what was, in the old dwarf’s opinion, the best gift a healer could give. A bill of good health, and a full recovery.

Dwalin produced his present from where he'd hidden it behind a few chairs, not having bothered to wrap it.

“Here,” he said, a little gruffly, “Seeing as your own sits in the Blue Mountains, and I fancy using it would do you some good.”

Thorin slowly took the beautiful, wooden lap-harp and drew his fingers across the strings. It was tuned, and had clearly been restored to its former glory by a skilled hand. He couldn't help but sit it between his knees and pluck out a few notes – the sound ringing clear and true.

A sudden ache to play it seized him. His mother had taught him in these very halls, an endless mine of patience as he learned.

“Thank you,” said Thorin, gently setting the harp aside, “It's a beautiful instrument.” Later. In his own time and privacy, he'd see what he could still remember.

“And this is from me, laddie,” Balin smiled, handing over what was clearly an item of clothing. Thorin opened it, huffing out a surprised laugh.

It was an overcoat, in the same shade of grey and style as Bilbo's own.

“Seeing as you consistently complain about the clothes I make you wear, Bilbo's coat being a much repeated point,” the old dwarf said, a little dryly. Thorin chuckled, shaking his head a little and standing to pull the warm overcoat over his tunic.

“Now I only have to convince you this is appropriate wear,” he said, the Company laughing around him as Balin rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“And these are from us, uncle,” Kíli smiled, handing over a delicately wrapped pipe and ash-box, both clearly having been carved by his nephews. Runes ran around the outside of the box.

 

_Uncle Thorin, who we love through all. Strongest, wisest, kindest. He who brought us home. K &F_

 

He didn't deserve them. He didn't deserve their love, their kindness, their loyalty. But by Mahal, he was so grateful for it.

“Thank you, nûlukhithê, madtithbirzulê,” he rasped, hugging Kíli tight for a moment before going over to Fíli and wrapping his arms tight around him as well – careful of his wounds.

He drew back, keeping a hand on each of his nephew's shoulders as he addressed the Company.

“Thank you all for your kindness and gifts. I told Bilbo I hadn't the heart for a celebration, but I am glad to have shared this with you all.”

There was a smattering of applause and some hearty 'hear hear!'s, and Thorin let Kíli lead him back to the table and reload his plate with food.

He started to eat, perfectly content to let the conversation and chatter rise around him, indulging in the good cheer and good food. For now, at least, the storm of emotions had calmed, and the presence of his friends and family soothed a hurt he'd been ignoring.

Food and cheer above hoarded gold made a merrier world, indeed.

 

 

 

*

 

 _Cooling ashes knit a family closer_  
_Loose string's tugged to beginning its closure_

 

 

 

Bard pressed a kiss to each of his children's foreheads, ruffling their hair and tightening their new coats around them. Ereborian and heavy, any gems and precious metals carefully removed to make them more practical, and while the sleeves were perhaps a tad short on Bain and Sigrid, Tilda was merrily bundled in hers.

“Here,” he said, smiling as he helped them each into a new pair of gloves and sturdy boots, stepping back to look them over with a nod. They looked warm, and cheerful.

As soon as the supplies had started rolling in from Erebor he'd made sure his children had warm clothes and good boots long before he thought about himself. After his own children came the people of Esgaroth, and only when he was sure everyone had enough did he move to scavenge what was left. His boots were from two different pairs, but they fit – one better than the other – and while his new coat was a rather alarming shade of yellow, the soft leather was warm, and free of holes. Black fur lined the edges, though the sleeves stopped at his elbows, and the hem sat at his upper thigh.

The peals of laughter from his children earlier in the morning when he'd pulled it closed – just – across his chest had been worth it, and the coat was good enough.

“Alright. Ready?” he asked, smiling as they nodded enthusiastically. It was late morning, and he'd made sure they'd had a good breakfast of hot porridge and some dried fruits from the elves, as well as a steaming mug of tea each. He'd fed himself after their bowls were full, as he usually did, and they'd all cleared up together.

Bard opened the door for them, leading them out into the bustling streets of Dale.

The town was still in ruins, mostly, but campfires burned here and there now, and a greater cheer lay about the city. The dwarves had cleared the safest and most stable houses incredibly quickly, and the team of forty or so who came to city each day at dawn split into smaller groups to carry out the necessary work.

He had to admit the dwarves worked tirelessly, barely stopping to drink or eat, and all with kind words, or a smile, or a song. He'd expected surliness and bad grace, and had received neither.

It was a pleasant – and most welcome – surprise.

The menfolk mostly split themselves between the groups of dwarves, though some were still in the healer's building, and some were too fatigued by their trauma to work. A group to look after the surviving small children had been formed, and another to help the sick.

Thranduil had given orders for a great number of his host to return to his halls, leaving only himself and around thirty others of his kind in Dale.

Food was distributed carefully by the remaining elves, ensuring no one went wanting, but also keeping enough in the storerooms. The only time Bard had used the titles Thranduil and the menfolk were so keen to give him was when he realised a larger, more extravagant bundle of food had been given to him. He'd taken only what they needed and returned the rest, telling the startled elf that if he saw more food in his own basket than anyone else's again, he'd be having harsh words with Thranduil, King to King.

Pulling rank didn't come naturally to him. He still didn't believe he should _have_ a rank. Yes, he'd slain the dragon. Yes, he'd helped to organise their march from the Lake to Dale. Yes, he'd been the one to speak and negotiate with Thranduil and Thorin, yes he'd lead the people of Esgaroth into war. And of course he'd always wanted to do right by his brethren, he wanted to see them happy and prosperous, but a king?

A king sat in cold grandeur and counted his treasure while his people begged for scraps. A king kept the best for himself, thought himself higher, better, more valuable. A king had power – and a king was easily corrupted.

Hadn't that happened to the great kings of old? To the dwarf kings? To the kings of elves, the kings of men? Hadn't it happened to Thráin? Hadn't it happened to the Master of the Men of the Lake?

Kingship bred sickness, and there was enough sickness in the world.

Bard gently squeezed Tilda's shoulders as they approached the area where the younger children were being looked after.

“Now,” he said, sinking down to crouch in front of her with a wide smile, “You're not going to go wandering today, love, are you?”

“No, Da,” she smiled, shaking her head, “Miss Bysen said she's going to get me to help school the little ones.”

“Good,” Bard nodded, “Good. That's a very important job. You'll be a great teacher, love. We'll be back before you know it. If you need to find me, make sure you ask one of the elves to take you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Da,” Tilda smiled, throwing her arms tight around Bard's neck in a hug. She pulled back with a deep breath, her siblings both giving her a hug and a kiss to her cheek. Tilda smiled and waved, turning to jog towards the group of small children and those looking after them.

The first time he'd tried to leave her with the nursery she'd been a silent, pale, shivering wreck. The memories and horrors of the war were still too clear in her mind, and to be left there without her family had been too much.

Bard swallowed hard and stood again, putting his hands on Sigrid and Bain's shoulders, watching as his youngest joined the group with merry chatter and a big smile.

She was so brave. All of them were so, so brave.

“Come on, then,” he said softly, “Sigrid, you wanted to help with the roads, aye?”

“I do,” she said solemnly, following him as he lead them further into Dale. Bard nodded, keeping an arm around her shoulders as he lead them to where the group of men, dwarves – and three or so elves – were repairing the main road from Erebor to Dale.

He held her close for a second, pressing a kiss to her forehead before he let her wriggle away. She laughed, smiling widely up at him.

“I'll be fine, Da. And I'll check on Tilda in a while, alright? I love you.”

“Good. Good girl. I love you, too,” he nodded, throat a little tight. She smiled again, giving her brother a quick hug before hurrying over to the group and starting to follow their lead immediately.

Bard swallowed a few times, his grip firm on Bain's shoulder as he nodded his head. He forced himself to take a deep, shaky breath and turn from the group, leading his son away.

“... They'll be alright, Da,” Bain said softly.

“I know, son. I know.” It didn't mean he didn't worry, though. Of course he did. It was natural. He'd seen his children terrified out of their wits, surrounded by dragon-fire and death, and then surrounded by sickness and hunger, and then war. He'd seen his precious children armed, seen his son plunge a sword into an orc seconds away from stealing their lives. Bard tightened his grip around Bain's shoulders. He'd seen orcs appear around every corner of this city.

Of course he worried.

“And you, my boy? Where for you today?”

“The rebuilding of the houses,” Bain said seriously. Bard smiled, nodding his head as he lead his son over to where the houses were being repaired. It didn't take long for them to arrive, Bard wrapping his arms around his son as he held him close.

“I love you. You do me so proud, all of you. Check on your sisters. Ask an elf if you need to find me.”

“Love you too, Da,” Bain mumbled, face pressed against his father's chest.

“My good boy,” whispered Bard, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Bain pulled back, crooking a slightly wobbly smile. Then he turned, striding over to where another group of men, elves, and dwarves were busy rebuilding and stabilising the house.

Bard's breath hitched as he pressed his knuckles against his lips, his throat and chest clenching.

They'd be fine. There was no danger here, not anymore. They were surrounded by warriors – dwarves and elves ready to take out any possible threat. They'd come to no harm. They'd be safe. But by the Lake, he couldn't shake the image of orcs around every corner out of mind. He couldn't stop images of a single orc left hidden in the rubble springing up, taking the lives of whoever might be closest, of his children's screams, of bright blood and cold bodies and--

A hand on his shoulder had him jumping, his heart hammering as he turned his head to see none other than the elven king himself.

Thranduil was dressed in much more simple clothes than usual. Instead of his flowing robes and hair he had a much more form-fitting tunic, sleeves long but not trailing, and boots snug up to his knees. His hair was pulled back in elaborate braids, and his winter crown sat snug above his ears.

“They are safe,” Thranduil said, his voice soft and low, “My kin will not let danger within miles of your children, and each is watched by one of my guard.”

Bard exhaled roughly and nodded his head. The elf's hand slid off his shoulder, his piercing gaze dropping down to look at his coat.

“... An interesting choice. Come. I have one more suited to your stature – and to your status. I have things to discuss with you. I will not be spending the winter here, and the contracts from Erebor have arrived.”

“Alright,” Bard agreed, “But then I must return to the city. There's too much work to be done to spend the day idling in tents.”

Thranduil's lips quirked, an amused look on his face.

“Indeed,” he agreed, moving to walk towards his tent, Bard keeping pace beside the elven king's long strides. As they walked along the roads Thranduil paused, cocking his head to listen to something only he could hear. Bard raised his eyebrows.

From between the buildings and the noise of rebuilding the slow strains of a melody started to rise. The singing grew louder, suddenly echoing from every part of the city, a song all the menfolk knew.

_[Mountain rising from the earth,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kwYdAKI0Y_U&feature=youtu.be) _  
_[Give to us our joy and mirth,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kwYdAKI0Y_U&feature=youtu.be)_  
_[Rivers running bright with gold,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kwYdAKI0Y_U&feature=youtu.be)_  
_[Chase away the winter cold!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kwYdAKI0Y_U&feature=youtu.be)_  
_[(Riches, Riches for us!)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kwYdAKI0Y_U&feature=youtu.be)_

Dwarven voices were mixed in, too. It was a song with no known origin or author, one that had been sung for centuries around Erebor. His father had taught it to him, and he and his wife had taught it to their children. A round that could be sung over and over again.

For a moment the city felt alive. Bard closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him and take some of the tension from his shoulders. When he glanced over to Thranduil, the elf was still looking around with something akin to wonder in his eyes.

“You don't know it?” Bard asked.

“No. I do not spend time in the towns of men, or dwarves. We have songs in this fashion, but the sound is different among the trees and grass than among stone,” answered Thranduil, starting to walk again towards the tent.

“Maybe you should. You could learn a thing or two,” Bard shrugged, following the elven king into the tent and letting the flap close behind them, the sound of the singing fading out.

Thranduil glanced over his shoulder, a twinkle in his icy eyes as he walked over to the table with the contracts on it, ready to be signed.

“Perhaps,” he laughed, gesturing for Bard to sit, “It seems there are still lessons to learn, even after six thousand years.”

Six thousand years... He'd always known the elf was old – older than he could imagine – but six thousand years?

Bard sat, nodding his head. Six thousand years.

It sounded lonely.

 

 

 

*

 

 _Unconscious mind makes some realisations_  
_On the backdrop of the heart's foundations_

 

 

 

“What are you staring at?” Dwalin asked, voice bordering on curious.

Ori jerked back, his head knocking against the shelf behind him, mouth opening and closing uselessly.

Dwalin glanced down at himself, shirtless in the gentle twilight of the library. He flexed his arms, muscles shifting under the skin and making his tattoos appear alive. Ori felt a flash of pure panic rush through him as he clutched his books closer to his chest. Hadn't Dwalin been wearing a shirt?! In fact, he added as he glanced down at himself, hadn't they both been wearing shirts?!

“Were you looking me over?”

Ori squawked out a noise of denial, far too loud in the library.

Dwalin turned towards him, taking a few slow, steady steps forward. To his utter horror Ori realised he couldn't move away, trapped against the shelves. Nothing seemed to stop Dwalin's advance, however, and a second later he was left staring up at the older dwarf.

“Are we so different?” Dwalin murmured.

Ori's stutter wasn't intelligible even to himself. His hand trembled as Dwalin took it in one of his own, lifting it up between them. Hadn't he been holding books just a moment ago?

Dwalin's fingers covered his own.

“See? We're the same.”

Ori stopped trying to come up with some coherent denial of his staring, eyes widening in confusion as he looked at their hands.

Dwalin's hand was still as strong and tough as ever, his own still small in comparison, but as he looked closer he realised his skin was just as calloused and scarred as the other's. Remnants of old wounds criss-crossed his arm, roughening his knuckles and fingers. He was scarred, too. There were old burn marks, axe and warg-tooth wounds, some deep and knotted and some thin and marbled. They were scattered over his chest and arms like constellations, each one telling a story. He'd fought, too. He'd done all he could, he'd been brave, and come away with hurts. He had the same weathered, strong body, and Dwalin smiled down at him and whispered, “We're the same...”

Ori sat up abruptly and blinked, dazed, at the opposite wall of his bedroom.

This was getting utterly ridiculous. It was one thing to be having inappropriate dreams about Dwalin, but this one was just surreal. The only scar he had on his body was one on his knee when he'd tripped as a very young dwarf – and besides, the library was far too cold for any shirtlessness.

Ori woke up a little more and promptly deleted the first part of his thoughts.

It was _not_ one thing to have-- ... He was _not_ having-- ... It was just-- … It was the work, the stress, it was completely natural to have a dream about your good friends! Well, friend.

Multiple dreams, really.

Ori groaned and dropped his head down onto his knees, running his hands over his cheeks.

Sleep hadn't been coming easy to him, if he were honest. Erebor's stone was like a cradle, and he could feel the beauty and splendour of the mountain wrapped around him.

But not even the most sacred stone could chase away nightmares.

So, yes. He'd been having rather... Involved dreams about Dwalin. And those were actually the better ones. Some had been terrifying, set in battlefields and painted red, some had been bizarre, some confusing, and some... Indescribable. Ori tried not to think about those. Those were Inappropriate.

It didn't mean anything. Dwalin was his friend. Perhaps even now his best friend, after all the time they spent together in the library and working in Erebor, and the Quest itself. Even in the Blue Mountains, Dori's connection with Balin and Dwalin's constant entanglements with Nori's thieving meant their families knew each other very well.

Not to mention he was also Dwalin's friend. They'd become surprisingly close over the Quest, and closer still since reclaiming Erebor. The reams of notes he'd taken as Dwalin told him story after story about his childhood in the mountain and his parent's lives sat beside his bed, physical proof of the trust Dwalin put in him.

These dreams... They were just a normal, natural reaction to spending a lot of time around someone. Someone who wasn't your family, obviously. They didn't mean anything.

If Ori hadn't already woken up a few hours ago from another inappropriate dream and written out a few pages of his account of the Quest, he'd get up and distract himself until he was sure he'd fall into a dreamless sleep. Unfortunately, as he'd already tried that once before, he wasn't entirely convinced it would work.

Ori heaved a sigh and flopped back onto his bed, closing his eyes and tugging the covers up around himself. It was cold, his fire ashes in the grate. Of course if he was cold he was going to dream of warm bodies, a wide chest, strong arms and--

He pulled the pillow over his face with a groan.

Dwalin was his friend. This was terrible. _He_ was terrible. Dwalin had put aside his stoicism, had let Ori in behind his walls, had spoken to him about the most intimate of his family memories. And this was how he repaid him? With inappropriate dreams?

Ori rolled over onto his stomach, keeping his face buried in the pillow.

He'd always known his gaze was drawn to older, tougher, warrior-like dwarves. Nori liked to tell the story of when he was only ten or so years old, loudly proclaiming he was going to marry-- …

… Mister Dwalin.

Was it possible to die of embarrassment decades after the event? He groaned again, feeling his cheeks burn.

Mahal, how had he forgotten?

He didn't really remember the event except in vague images – his brothers and Balin laughing, Dwalin had only been one hundred and nine himself at the time, but he'd already lost most of the hair on top of his head and the grizzled warrior had turned cherry red.

But... Dwalin had picked him up and given him a warm hug before ruffling his hair and setting him down again.

 

_“I'm sure you'll find yourself a good dwarf one day to marry, lad.”_

 

It had just been a childhood fancy. It wasn't as if Dwalin was his One – though Ori still wasn't entirely sure he'd know what that would feel like when it happened. Dori had never wanted a One, and didn't have any interest in romance or courting. He was perfectly happy with his friends, and with Balin. Nori was still searching, and Ori...

… Ori was having inappropriate dreams about his friend, who he'd had an embarrassing childhood fancy for. How had he managed to forget about that? Mahal, it had lasted right up until his thirties. Dwalin had kept his involvement in their family, and had also been the one who taught basic weapons training at the school.

Dwalin had always seemed so strong and fierce, but he'd been so kind and gentle, too. He'd shown them how to brutally slay and maim, but he'd spent ages correcting stances and giving encouraging words to those who needed them. He'd shown them how to fight, but also how to be proud and confident in themselves. Was it so strange to love someone like that?

Ori jerked back, mentally and physically. He stared down at the pillow.

Love?! Who'd said anything about _love_?! How in Durin's name had this gone from a few strange dreams to _love_?

He didn't love Dwalin. Love was something massive and overwhelming, love was something your whole body sung with. Love could lead you in and out of war, love could give you hope when all hope was lost, love kept you up at night and-- …

Well. That last part didn't count. This – whatever this was – wasn't love, it was just... Strange and inappropriate dreams. It wasn't as if he'd gone to war for _Dwalin_ , and even before that, he'd gone on the Quest for entirely different reasons!

Ori nodded his head and slowly lowered himself back down onto his bed, closing his eyes.

He'd gone on the quest for entirely different reasons. Like... Proving himself. Proving his ability to fight and march with the best of them, proving his appearance didn't dictate his skill, proving his age wasn't a drawback. Proving to Dw-- …

Proving to Dori and Nori he was an adult. Proving he could make his own choices in life, proving himself worthy of-- …

Oh, Mahal. Oh _Mahal_.

He was an idiot.

 

_We're the same..._

 

Except they weren't. Dwalin was almost a hundred years his senior. It wasn't an unheard-of age difference, but it certainly wasn't small, and Dwalin had watched him grow up. He was – and would always be – a young child in Dwalin's eyes. A family friend. A few scars here and there weren't going to change anything.

Ori sighed heavily, rubbing his hands over his face.

No matter what his feelings were, there was no chance Dwalin would ever return them. More than anything he wanted to keep Dwalin as his friend, as someone he could talk to – and as someone who could talk to him. The thought of his carefully collected notes sent a little wave of peace through him.

This was just a fancy. He was seventy, he was a young adult who'd gone through war and dragon-fire, and didn't have many friends. It was natural and normal to return to a childhood affection. It didn't mean anything.

He buried his face into the pillow again, rolling over and pulling his covers up to his ears.

Mahal, he hoped it didn't mean anything.

 

 

 

*

  _T.A 2941_

_November 13th_

 

 _Ma'at is balanced on the scale of grains_  
_Love, friendship - op'site links on grapeshot chains_

 

 

 

“You're up early.”

“Nonsense,” Bilbo said to Gandalf as he bustled into the kitchen, wrapped up warmly and stifling a yawn behind his hand, “I'm up at a perfectly reasonable time.”

The wizard hummed out an amused noise, putting on the kettle for Bilbo and sitting down at the little table. The door had been open and the light on when Bilbo had entered, and he wasn't too surprised to see Gandalf sitting at the table.

The wizard barely seemed to sleep – and the few times he'd caught him, he'd slept with his eyes open and given Bilbo the most terrible fright, and left him with a very eerie feeling indeed.

“I assure you, it's barely past dawn.”

“Well,” Bilbo huffed, fetching two mugs, “It doesn't help that this place doesn't have any damn windows. Not all of us have that useful stone-sense, you know. Besides – aren't you up early yourself? Thorin warned me you might be skulking around at odd hours.”

Gandalf tilted his head back and laughed, drawing his pipe of his pocket.

“Did he now! One chance meeting in the night, and I'm skulking around Erebor, am I?” he chuckled, seeming more amused than anything.

Bilbo straightened his overcoat, running his fingers through his curls and stifling another yawn before he began to ready himself some breakfast.

“I happen to think you just have a knack of being in the right place at the right time. Right for yourself, that is,” he grumbled, pulling out two little rolls of hard bread from one of the boxes stacked with supplies, dropping them onto a plate.

What he wouldn't give for one of Mr. Sandyman's freshly baked loaves... Warm from the ovens, with lashings of butter and jam... Bilbo sighed heavily.

“And what,” Gandalf asked, moving to pour two cups of tea as the kettle started to whistle, “Am I in the right place at the right time for now, I wonder.”

Rashers of smoked bacon... Maybe a kipper or two... Sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms... Seasoned with salt and pepper... Bilbo knocked the bread against the stone table. He almost fancied the stone had suffered a greater wound than the roll.

“I wonder indeed! I'm sure you'll tell me soon enough,” Bilbo replied, raising his eyebrows innocently as Gandalf huffed around his pipe. He put his bread back down on the plate, foraging in the boxes for a scrap of butter or jam or chutney, anything to bring a little more taste to his breakfast.

After a moment of digging he found a little pot of marmalade, crusted with peel and sugar, but still edible. Butter was probably out of the question, but this would do.

For a while they were quiet, Bilbo sawing open his rolls and spreading a generous helping of marmalade on each half and adding an extra dollop of honey into his tea. He wasn't going to take so much it would mean anyone else went hungry, but he'd been living on dwarven ideas of how many meals a day were acceptable for long enough.

“Well,” Gandalf finally said, knocking out the ash in his pipe only to refill again, “Perhaps Thorin has mentioned, but I intend to be on my way, shortly. There are several things I must see to.”

“None of which I suppose you'll tell me about,” Bilbo grumbled, taking a bite of his bread.

“No, I shall not! And why should I? A wizard's matters hardly concern you, Bilbo Baggins!”

“Hah!” Bilbo laughed around his mouthful, “So I have been named dwarf-friend and labelled a good friend of the elves, but now I have done the wizard's bidding, I am no longer a friend of his!”

Gandalf scowled from under his hat, bushy eyebrows drawing together.

“I see your adventure hasn't blunted your sharp tongue.”

“I should certainly hope not,” Bilbo snorted, taking another bite of his bread, “Facing down dragons makes one slightly less afraid of being turned into a toad, you know.”

The wizard laughed, his frown disappearing in a haze of smoke. Bilbo took a sip of his tea, stirring it a little more.

“... You're going to ask me if I want to come back to the Shire with you, aren't you.”

Gandalf slowly inclined his head, the merriment in his blue eyes softening.

“I will gladly be your guide as far as the borders of the Shire, and I'm sure Thorin will wish to send a guard with you, for added protection,” he said softly, puffing on his pipe.

Bilbo sighed heavily, chewing on his breakfast.

It was tempting. Oh, it was tempting. To go back to his cozy little smial, to his armchair and his books, his maps and crockery, his garden...

To his empty home. His empty chairs, and empty tables.

Home tugged at his heart with a sharp hook, like someone was trying to reel him ashore, but he didn't want to be alone again. Not anymore.

“... Well, I mean. It doesn't make much sense to me to go off travelling in the winter, don't you think? Dreadfully cold, and the rain! No, I think if I do head back, it'll be in the spring, thank you. Besides, well, believe it or not I think I'm making myself rather useful around here.”

“I'm sure you are,” Gandalf said innocently, eyes wide as he took another drag of his pipe and blew a perfect smoke-ring.

“And, well,” Bilbo continued, “Thorin's given me a fascinating book on Khuzdul, and it would be so rude just to run off like that, without even learning a word, and it's not like I've pressing business in the Shire – I've written a whole ream of letters, so nothing should be out of order, so to speak.”

“Of course, of course,” nodded the wizard.

“Besides, there's work to do here, and I should like to make sure Fíli is recovered fully, of course, and Thorin-- … Well, he... I--... Oh, do stop looking so smug, please! As if you did me some great favour! Really, it's most unbecoming of you to smirk like that,” Bilbo scowled, shoving half a roll into his mouth and chewing ferociously as Gandalf laughed, each puff of breath a cloud of smoke, each a different colour and shape.

“There just so happens,” Bilbo said haughtily when he finished his mouthful, “To be more work to be done here before I can go home with a clear conscience, and a few more stories to finish up for my journals. Dwarves have been painted in a rather unflattering light, so I've found – first impressions aside, of course.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf said, softly. “Dwarves are said to be simple creatures, and like the rock they so love. Slow, and colourless. But I have found the opposite to be quite true. They are close-knit – and not without reason, as they are so greatly misunderstood – but they are tender, and they love fiercely, and while their colour might be easy to miss... it is grand and beautiful in its own right.”

Bilbo dropped his gaze to the table, taking a gulp of his cooled tea.

“Quite so,” he murmured, “Quite so.”

“Well,” Gandalf said cheerily, taking a final puff of his pipe and finishing his tea before standing, “Dawn moves on, and I have places to be outside the mountain. I imagine we shall meet again sooner than you'd expect.”

“Ominous as always,” Bilbo grumbled, moving to stand as well. He looked up at the wizard, hands on his hips before he stuck one out for Gandalf to shake, “Well. It'll be a pity not to have you around. Wizards seem to bring good luck.”

The old wizard smiled and took Bilbo's hand between his, shaking it once before his expression turned serious.

“You don't really believe all your adventures and escapes have been brought about by mere luck, do you? Magic rings should not be used lightly, Bilbo.”

He gaped, mouth opening as he began to bluster out denials, but Gandalf's tone cut him off like he was naught but a naughty schoolboy.

“Don't take me for a fool, I know you found one in the Goblin Tunnels, and I've kept my eye on you ever since.”

After a couple of seconds of stunned silence, Bilbo snapped his mouth shut.

“Well thank goodness,” he said softly, giving Gandalf's hand another little shake before stepping back and letting go, clasping his hands behind his back. The wizard nodded and walked towards the door, but before he could quite move through it, Bilbo called out.

“You, ah... You needn't worry. About that little ring, I mean. Fell out of my pocket during the battle! I lost it! Quite careless.”

Gandalf paused, looking back at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“You're a very fine person, Mr. Baggins, and I am very fond of you. But you're only quite a little fellow in a wide world, after all.”

A strange rush of shame and affection ran through Bilbo as Gandalf gave him one final, searching look and strode out the door, letting it close behind him.

He sat down again, fingers fluttering over the little weight in his pocket.

Bilbo pulled out the ring, holding it in his palm and looking down. It sat, warm and heavy against his skin. He'd always imagined magic rings would look more impressive, or be bigger – made for the hands of men and elves, not as little and plain as this.

Bilbo held it up to the light, turning it this way and that.

“Magic ring... Hardly! Just a little trinket, in my opinion. What else does it do than make you invisible – nothing but a party trick, really! Just some little bygone relic of the elves, I reckon, a child's toy,” he said to himself, slipping it back into his pocket and patting over it.

There was nothing to worry about there, as far as he was concerned. Bilbo took a hearty bite of his roll and nodded his head.

Nothing to worry about there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find [me](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com), and [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) all on tumblr! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sending them a message, too! Another massive shout out to my [Khuzdul Translator](http://www.love-is-a-two-place-predicate.tumblr.com) for her work in this chapter!
> 
> [Youtube video of 'Ibinê Mim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4).  
> [Youtube video of Mountains Rising](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kwYdAKI0Y_U&feature=youtu.be).  
> [Azhâr's soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari).
> 
> Notes on the poetry:  
> NB: "without wax" is the translation of the Latin "sine cera," and is used to mean that a sculpture was crafted without a wax form and thus was perfect even with its imperfections. Taken from the Dan Brown novel Digital Fortress.  
> NB: Ma'at is the Ancient Egyptian goddess of order, and typically also the name of the scale that the heart of the dead is weighed on against Ma'at's feather (the feather of truth). If someone has told a single lie in their lifetime or committed a single crime, then their heart is heavier than Ma'at's feather and they are denied entrance into the Afterlife, forced to wander in the realm of monsters that they had to cross in order to get to Osiris' court for their heart to be weighed for eternity. Egyptians frequently used protective spells and amulets in order to obscure their lies and failures from Ma'at, which were either incanted over their bodies by the priest or tucked into their wrappings during mummification.
> 
> List of Khuzdul and Sindarin used in order of appearance:  
> Bekhazê mim - My little hammer  
> Mannur Bunûn - Market of Treasures  
> Hadur'arisî - Batteries  
> Shulnu Gabil - Great Harbour  
> Ân Tharkh - River Road  
> Mekhem Zirin - Iron Gate  
> Mekhem Thafar - Grey Gate  
> Mazzul Mahiblêg - Chambers of Cooking  
> Bâhu-khazâd - Dwarf-friend  
> Akhminruki astû - Thank you wholeheartedly  
> Nûlukhithê - My little moon  
> Madtithbirzulê - My little golden heart
> 
> The scene with Ori's dreams was incredibly heavily influenced by a scene in Diplomatic Relations of one of my all-time favourite fics by one of my all time favourite fic authors, [Maldoror_GW](http://maldoror-gw.livejournal.com/30383.html). The fanfic is almost 10 years old now, and is a GaaLee Naruto fic. The scene in this fic is meant to be tribute to her amazing work, and how she inspired me for so many years.


	9. Mendë

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the fantastic support! I really don't have words for how grateful I am you're enjoying the story so far! It really encourages and inspires me to keep writing, even in the darkest times. Thank you again!
> 
> Please make sure to go back a few chapters to check out the amazing art by [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), [Pop](http://www.poplitealqueen.tumblr.com) and [Quel](http://www.tosquinha.tumblr.com)!
> 
> And to my two betas who put in a simply unbelievable amount of work, [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com) and [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com), I really couldn't do any of this without your help. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Keep an eye out for the third original song in this chapter. The words are from Tolkien's poem and the amazing, talented [Laer](http://laer-aewen.tumblr.com) wrote the music!
> 
>  [Please come say hi to me on Tumblr!](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)

 

  _T.A 2941_

_November 14th_

 

 

 

Dawn was breaking in startling oranges and golds as Dís and her two companions drew up to the entrance of Erebor, the peak of the mountain still covered by cloud. Steam from their pony's heaving bodies curled in the cold morning air.

They'd ridden through the night, and Dís' legs shook as she slid from the saddle.

The plea from Balin had stirred a ravenous fire in her belly, and as if chased by Durin’s Bane itself she, Lóni, and Halta had sped over the pass of the Misty Mountains and through Mirkwood - accompanied from border to border by a group of silent elves, high in the canopies above the path.

With no boats and no Laketown they’d ridden across the plains - stopping sporadically for rest when their ponies trembled with the need for it.

She looked up at the gateposts, a broken, tangled mix of stone broken down and put back too many times, leading her steed forwards towards the closed gates.

“Who goes there?” Came a shout from above.

Dís pulled back the hood of her cloak back from her face.

“I am Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór. With me is Mistress Lóni, and Master Halta of the Blue Mountains. I have come home.”

“Lady Dís...!”

She spotted the astonished face of a young dwarf up on the parapets and crooked a smile, patting at her pony’s neck.

“Come, let us enter. We've ridden many, many miles with little rest and food. We're cold, we're hungry, and I must see my family. I have papers to prove myself, should you want further validation of my identity.”

The young dwarf nodded, disappearing behind the stone. A moment later the gates began to open, the rattle of chains and the groan of metal loud in the morning air.

Dís trembled, sucking in a shaky breath.

She'd been so young when the dragon had come, only a child of thirty-four. The last time she had seen these gates had been the day they came crashing down behind her. Her father had carried the both of them out, a wailing Frerin under one, and herself under the other. The gasping, rasping sound of his panicked breath hadn’t been loud enough to cover the screams and cries from her kin.

Her mother, Geldís, had never made it out. Neither had her grandmother, Ráina She'd been two hundred sixty-six when Smaug had come, and had been recovering in the medical wing from a nasty burn on her arm. It had only been a small accident in the forges, but her grandmother had been the most stubborn in their whole family - it was only when the burn turned an alarming shade of green and she'd become unable to move her arm had she let Geldís take her to the medical wing.

They'd never returned.

A wave of warm air rolled over them. For a second Dís could smell the smoke and dragon-fire, could taste ash and blood on her tongue, could feel the burning, stinging pain in her eyes and throat.

She took a deep breath and drew her shoulders up straighter, striding into the mountain with a shake in her fingers.

Everything was so familiar. Yet it was twisted, like tarnished silver on the back of a mirror, or warped glass. Like looking around in a dream, and realising you'd been there before, only everything was a little bit wrong.

“Amad! Amad!”

Dís gasped, the breath knocked from her lungs.

She turned her head towards the noise – eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness inside the mountain.

“Kíli...!”

He was six, sixteen, sixty, eighty five all at once. Her darling little boy, her little moon, her brave son. A warrior, a dwarf who had seen death and war; and when he crashed into her arms like a hammer on steel, she clung to him as if she might never see him again.

“Oh, Kíli... oh my boy, my darling,” she breathed, pressing kisses all over his cheeks and forehead, clasping his head in both her hands to bring their foreheads together, “Oh, how I've missed you, nûlukhithê, how I've thought and worried over you – you reckless little gem...!”

Kíli laughed, his voice thick and wet with tears as he pushed closer to her again, his face fitting perfectly against her neck.

He'd always been such an affectionate child, always climbing onto laps and into beds to cuddle with her, or with Fíli, or Thorin. Even when he'd slowly grown out of it, he still hugged her like a young child.

She wouldn't have it any different, not for any gold or gems. Nothing held more worth than her children.

“Amad, I promised, didn't I? I promised to come back.”

“You did, nûlukhithê, you did,” Dís whispered, stroking her fingers through his hair and pressing another kiss to his temple, “I'm so proud of you, Kíli. So very, very proud.”

She slowly drew back, cupping her son's face and smiling gently at him. Thank Mahal she hadn't lost him. Thank Mahal he was here, warm and living in her hands.

“Fíli's alive,” Kíli murmured, holding onto her and beaming, “And Thorin.”

Dís breathed out a low noise and closed her eyes, letting the relief wash through her.

She’d made it in time.

“Take me to Fíli, nûlukhithê, please,” Dís said, lifting her hands back from Kíli's cheeks and smiling as he offered her his arm. She took it gladly, letting the gathering group of dwarves lead her pony aside.

“Give Mistress Lóni and Master Halta warm beds, and hot food,” she said over her shoulder, “Tend to them as guards of the Royal Line of Durin, for guard me they did, and did well.”

The dwarves around them nodded and called out agreements, swiftly leading the two newcomers and their ponies into the mountain.

“He's in his bedroom, probably still asleep,” Kíli grinned, leading her into the mountain, “Lord Elrond and his sons operated on him, and he survived it. Óin says he’s getting stronger every day.”

“Good,” breathed Dís, her grip tightening on Kíli’s arm.

Fear curled sickly in her stomach as they stepped deeper into Erebor, and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickling against her skin. This was where Smaug had come, this was where he had crushed their armies under his feet and set her world to burn.

“Amad,” said Kíli softly, and Dís realised he'd put his arm around her, and she'd stumbled to a halt before the entrance leading to the throne and the paths into the mountain. His kiss against her whiskered cheek was soft and loving.

He'd grown so much, but he still was – and always would be – her sweet, gentle little boy.

“I'm alright, nûlukhithê. It's only a few memories, after all.”

She stood a little straighter, crushing down the nausea in her belly.

The dragon was dead. Her family had survived. Smaug had taken her mother and her grandmother, her home and her peoples, but he hadn't taken them all from her.

“I have missed you, darling,” Dís murmured, squeezing Kíli's arm and leaning up to press another kiss to his cheek.

“I missed you too, amad,” he replied, beaming down at her, “We got your letter! We wanted to send one back, but then Fíli-- … And Balin said he'd already sent one, and you'd be moving too fast, and--”

“--It's alright,” laughed Dís, letting him lead her up stairs she remembered so well, “We barely stopped, after all, and you were recovering, too.”

Kíli walked with new purpose. Gone was the lanky, clumsy dwarf who’d run amok in the Blue Mountains, his equally mischevious brother at his side. Beside her now stood a young prince. A dwarf who stepped with surety, with belief, and with power.

He walked like a Durin. Like the dwarf she’d spent decades assuring him he’d become.

Dís bit back a small smile, following her son’s lead.

Before long they were walking through the King's Halls, and then to the series of rooms behind them. She let her fingers trail over the stone on either side of her, cocooned by the rock she'd been born in.

Kíli lead her up to a door, knocking twice on the wood before pushing it open.

“Oh,” Dís breathed, frozen for a moment.

There, on the bed, was Fíli. Eyes open, and a smile on his beautiful face.

“Amad,” he grinned.

“Oh, madtithbirzulê,” gasped Dís, rushing over to him and clasping his face in both her hands. She pressed kisses over his forehead and cheeks, feeling him start to shake under her as he clung to her arms.

Her heart ached for her son as he slumped against her, Kíli slowly sitting on his other side and wrapping his arms around his older brother.

“Amad,” Fíli rasped, his voice tight and thick, “Amad, I was so--... I thought I would--... That I'd never get to--...”

“Shh, shh,” she whispered as she combed her fingers through his golden hair, “I know, ibinê mim, I know. My brave little boy... My brave boys.”

Dís drew them closer, both of their heads resting against her as she wrapped her arms around their shoulders. Her throat was tight, eyes stinging as she felt the fight drain from them and their bodies start to tremble.

“I'm here... I'm here, now... My brave boys, my brave sons... How I love you both... I'm so proud of you, more proud than I have words for...”

There was no shame or humiliation in tears. They had fought and suffered, and they had brushed closer to death than she could bear to think about. The terror of being too late, of coming to Erebor and finding the tombs of her sons and brother had haunted her since news of the battle at the gates had reached her. Night terrors of the last of her family's bodies laid out to be returned to the stone had plagued her nights.

How could she have gone on, a hollow stone in a hollow stone? How could she have stood alone in Erebor, and felt like she'd come home?

The door creaked open behind them.

“Dís...”

His voice was strong and deep. Tentative. Fragile.

She turned her head, still cradling her sons to her.

Thorin stood cast in shadow, his hand on the door-frame and head a lowered. He seemed small, a definite leanness to his limbs. Pride and confidence had given way to shame, and her brother looked older than ever.

The surge of anger in her chest bubbled away to nothing. Her sons had chosen to follow him, they were of age and headstrong. If she hadn't been the one to rule their home in the Blue Mountains, she too would have followed him.

To whatever end.

“Come here,” she whispered, holding out an arm to him. He hesitated, rocking forwards in his boots before he held himself back.

“Dís, I--... I almost let them--,”

“--Come here,” she said again, a little louder.

Thorin stepped into the room, walking over to the bed before he sank down onto his knees beside them. There was such pain and misery on his face, and his whole body seemed weighed down. Weary beyond words.

She shifted, sliding one arm around both her son's shoulders as they clung to her, wrapping the second around Thorin's shoulders to bring him close. Dís dropped her head down, resting her cheek atop their heads as Thorin rested his forehead against her shoulder.

Mahal, how she loved them. Loved them with all the fierce, raging fire that made dwarven folk so strong and so passionate. Their maker’s forge burned in them all, and hers was aflame for her family.

Thorin's fingers curled into the back of her coat, Fíli and Kíli's hands tight on her sides. Dís pressed a kiss to each of their heads, holding them closer.

They were alive. Warm in her arms. The weight she’d carried from the day they’d left until now was starting to crumble, pebbles giving way to boulders as her body trembled and tears ran hot into her beard.

She was home.

 

 

 

*

  _T.A 2941_

_November 21st_

 

 

“Your mother has spoken more words to me than any other dwarf in the week she's been here,” Tauriel pointed out as she stroked her fingers through Kíli's hair and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of his head.

They were both curled up on a long chair, cushions and blankets beneath them. A single lamp lit the room, Kíli stretched out along her side with his head resting against her shoulder.

It was a rare moment of peace. As Fíli's personal healer - not to mention the sole elf in a mountain full of dwarves - stolen, private moments between her and Kíli were hard to come by. But here, in this hidden room, they'd carved out a space in time.

Living encased in stone didn't come naturally to her. While her home in Thranduil's palace was wrought from the rock and the living roots of trees, it was always full of the smells of the forest. The light came from the sun, not these contraptions of liquid and metal, and the open, wide rooms felt like glades in the woods rather than caves in the stone.

She couldn't help but long for the forest, to walk under the leaves and over the grass.

But here, with Kíli, she could forget her homesickness for a while. Tauriel smiled, fingers brushing over his cheeks. The hairs of his beard were thick and coarse against her fingertips, a sensation still so new and novel to her.

“That's because she likes you,” Kíli grinned, pressing a kiss against her palm.

“And how could you possibly know that?” Tauriel laughed.

She curled her fingers against his lips before pressing a soft kiss to them, lingering with her nose brushing against his. The weight of homesickness was easier to bear with Kíli against her, warm and gentle.

“Well, she gave you the night off, didn't she?” He pointed out, “Offered to watch Fíli so you could see a bit more of Erebor,”

Tauriel hummed out a low noise, resting her head back against the chair.

“Or maybe she just doesn't trust an elf with the care of her son.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed Kíli, sitting up and leaning on his arm, smiling down at her, “She likes you. I know it. I've told her loads of good things about you, and so has Fee. If she didn't like you, you'd know about it.”

Tauriel cupped his cheeks, bringing him down for another idle kiss.

“Would I, meleth nín?”

“Yes,” Kíli said decisively, pulling back and standing. He grinned, holding out his hands to her, “You're thinking too much. Come on. I've got a surprise for you.”

She laughed, taking his hands and letting him pull her up onto her feet.

A thrill slid down her spine to feel how strong he was. For all his short limbs and stature, he was as powerful as any elf. Sturdy like the mountains and rock he belonged with.

“A surprise?”

“A surprise,” repeated Kíli, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He squeezed her hand, grabbed the lamp, and turned, leading her out of the room.

Tauriel followed him, linking her fingers through his and not fighting the little smile tugging at her lips. As they walked through winding corridors she realised they were heading upwards, away from the main chambers in use by the dwarves.

The air grew thinner. Cooler, and Kíli's footsteps echoed around them. Before long the corridors turned into narrow, winding stairs cut from the rock, the passage shrinking around them.

Kíli turned to her, lifting the lamp.

“Close your eyes.”

She did as asked, sliding them shut and following the clack of his boots on the stone floor, his hand warm in hers. He stopped, grunting as he pushed at something.

Cold, bright, sharp air crashed over her like a wave, stealing her breath away. Tauriel shivered, mouth dropping open – but she kept her eyes shut, and let Kíli guide her out.

Wind whipped around her, biting at her skin. She squeezed his fingers tighter.

“Kíli...”

“Just another minute,” he replied, “Stand still.”

He let go of her hand. She could hear him shuffling around them, and as he guided her down to sit on the thick overcoat he'd been wearing, then to lay back against his chest, the urge to open her eyes grew and grew.

“Alright,” whispered Kíli, “Open them.”

For a second there was nothing but darkness, a void hanging above her.

Then, like a thousand lights leaping into view, the stars seemed to kindle before her very eyes, and all she could see was the white lights of forever. They filled her vision, brighter and bigger than ever before.

Tauriel lifted her hand, fingers trembling as she reached out to them.

“A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!” She gasped, her heart pounding in her chest, “Never have I seen the stars so close...!”

She was floating, suspended in their glory. The cold air curled around them and the stars gleamed so bright and so clear she felt she could see their very edges.

“Do you like it...?” Kíli asked, pressing a kiss to her temple, “I found the stairway a few nights ago, and followed it up here. I saw the stars, and thought of you. Remember, in Laketown? I said you walked in starlight in another world.”

“I remember,” whispered Tauriel, unable to tear her gaze away from the vast sky above and around her.

“I want to walk there with you. Beyond the trees, and up into the night.”

She turned, cupping his cheek and leaning in to press a kiss to his lips, her whole body flushed with warmth and love for him.

“Meleth nín, I would not wish to walk among them now without you by my side.”

Kíli grinned, seeming to shimmer with light – reflecting the multitude of stars in his eyes. Tauriel kissed him again, resting her forehead against his for a long moment before she settled back down with her head on his chest, gazing up above them.

Each star twinkled with its own song, its own pattern. Each had a name, each was a note sung by Ilúvatar, each a perfect drop of creation. The cold didn't touch her, Kíli's body warm against hers, and though she had only walked on Arda for seven hundred and fifty four years of the sun, she felt she could spend thousands more laying here.

“We have a song,” she breathed, splaying her fingers over Kíli's chest, “A song for the starlight.”

“Will you sing it to me?”

“It is not in the tongue of men or dwarves,” Tauriel replied, turning her head to look at him. Kíli smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“I'd still like to hear it, if you'll sing it for me.”

She shifted, laying mostly on her back with her head cushioned on Kíli's broad, strong chest, and began to sing.

[“A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!](https://youtu.be/SIFwRTR-Ci8)  
[ Silivren penna míriel,](https://youtu.be/SIFwRTR-Ci8)  
[ O menel aglar elenath!](https://youtu.be/SIFwRTR-Ci8)  
[ Na-chaered palan-díriel,](https://youtu.be/SIFwRTR-Ci8)  
[ O galadhremmin ennorath,](https://youtu.be/SIFwRTR-Ci8)  
[ Fanuilos, le linnathon,](https://youtu.be/SIFwRTR-Ci8)  
[ Nef aear, sí nef aearon!”](https://youtu.be/SIFwRTR-Ci8)

As soon as the last note faded into the air, Kíli cupped her cheeks in his warm hands and kissed her, so sweet and so loving she was left breathless when he pulled back.

“Again,” he whispered.

Tauriel laughed, covering his hands on her cheeks with her own.

“Again, meleth nín?” she repeated, unable to curb her wide smile.

“Again, please. I could listen to you sing until the end of days, so please, amrâlimê, again.”

She beamed, pressing her forehead to his. Then she settled herself back on him and turned her gaze to the stars, starting to sing once more.

 

 

 

*

  _T.A 2941_

_November 22nd_

 

 

Galadriel held up a single hand and drew to a halt, staring into the dense forest in front of them. There had been no movement nor noise, and yet she felt a dark and odious presence slither over her skin. She flexed her toes against the soft grass, the trailing sleeves and hems of her robes wafting in the breeze.

Behind her the host of Lothlórien fell still, hands on their weapons.

“Show yourself, he who travels hidden, and alone.”

At the sound of her voice hundreds of birds took to the air, wheeling and calling in a grand cacophony. As one they swept to the right and flew off, their song fading. Her fingers tightened on the box she held under her arm.

Here, in the southernmost corner of Mirkwood, past the once again abandoned fortress of Dol Guldur, something stirred in the shadows.

She hadn't the power yet to face the Enemy again, nor one of his nine servants. Their journey back from Erebor to Lothlórien was slow, but with every step on Arda's earth and with each breath filling her lungs, she could feel her power slowly return – like seeds planted before the winter, sprouting in the spring.

“Show yourself,” she said again, a terrible ringing to her voice.

From the shadows stepped the form of a man, cloaked and hooded, and grasping a staff. He pushed the hood back from his face, his long, white hair hanging down.

“My Lady Galadriel,” he said, ducking his head in a bow.

“Curumo,” she replied, “I did not recognise your presence.”

Galadriel didn't lower her hand, the forest around them silent.

“Long have I followed the spirit of the Enemy, my Lady. Long have I travelled without rest – past Emyn Muil, through Dagorlad, over Ered Lithui, and down onto the very plains of Gorgoroth. There I have chased him beyond the Sea of Núrnen, and into the darkness. He shall trouble us no more,” Saruman smiled, leaning heavily on his staff, as if he was the frail old man of his earthly form.

Galadriel flexed her fingers, and didn't move.

“There is a shadow over you, Curumo.”

Saruman scoffed, shaking his head a little.

“As always, my Lady, Olórin's gloom weighs heavy on your brow. There is a shadow on me because I am weary, and have traded blows with the Enemy in the lands of Mordor. Look!” He said, suddenly, and threw his cloak from his shoulders to show himself in his gleaming white robes.

“Still before you stands Saruman the White! Eldest and wisest of all Istari!”

Finally Galadriel lowered her hand and slid her pale silver hood back from her hair. As if filtered through smoky glass, Saruman's light seemed dimmed.

“You are far from Isengard. What brings you back to Dol Guldur? It stands now empty.”

“I merely wished to explore the ruins, and to ensure the spirit of Sauron had truly fled, my Lady. I thought, too, to travel to Erebor, and examine the dwarf for myself. Whispers have come to me, whispers of a dwarf king raised from the dead,” he explained, a small smile on his thin lips, “Hardly a matter to be scoffed at when a necromancer dwelt so close to the mountain.”

Saruman was leaning against his staff again, and while he did seem smaller and slighter, his dark eyes shone with all the sharpness of a valerian blade.

“Mithrandir's warning was ignored by the White Council. Let this serve as a lesson to us all. He hears many things, Curumo. It would be wise to follow his advice in these matters,” she said softly, keeping her gaze focused on the wizard.

A scowl darkened Saruman's face, his spindly fingers clutching tighter at his staff.

“If we were to follow every story invented by the woodsmen we would waste precious years chasing nightmares and shadows,” he spat.

Galadriel's eyes narrowed.

“If we had, the Enemy would not have been allowed to grow so strong once more. Ma hanyat? Istalme i cotto. Istalme lúmequentale. Arda same mauré athiewa. Cenin aica umbar, ar fánar fantar anár. Áva lave huinen, Curumo.”

Saruman stood still and silent, the air around them bereft of bird song. Galadriel's host behind her barely drew breath.

Long had she had suspicions about Curumo. He had a mind of metal-work, of ancient lore, and saw a hierarchy in Arda not obvious to herself.

Finally he sighed, shaking his head a little.

“As ever, you speak wise words, my Lady. Come, I am weary with toil and travel, and the reek of the Enemy is still in my nose. You have been to Erebor, and seen the dwarf. Do you know what power woke him, and returned him?”

“Yes,” Galadriel said, inclining her head.

She stepped forwards, drawing up to Saruman and looking down at him. With the slow, careful precision of thousands of years, she opened the box and turned it so he could peer into it.

Saruman reached out – but as soon as he touched the Arkenstone he drew his hand back as if burned, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

 

_You know what this is. You have seen it before._

 

“The lost stones...” he breathed. The wizard seemed to pull himself together, leaning on his staff and holding out his hand, “So one is destroyed, then, and this is but a shard. Ona ta a'amin, massániënya. Amin utue palantír Orthancesse, ar i palantír Minas Anoresse harea ná harwë. Cenasit naranta palantíro, hya vanwaner ondoli.”

Galadriel smiled, and closed the box. She tucked it back under her arm, a scowl hewing Saruman's expression.

 

_ Tyé polin palancenëa, Curumo, ananta tyé uan cenëa. Aa' menealle nauva calen ar' malta. Namárië. _

 

She turned to step around him, but Saruman held up his staff, anger distorting his features.

“I ask that you give--!”

Like a sea-storm crashing down upon the shore, Galadriel's voice boomed out, and she seemed to be suddenly lit with a spectral glow from within, her hair and robes whipping in the sudden, furious wind.

“Do not test yourself against the power of Galadriel! Forget not who she is, nor what she wields! Weary from great battle am I, but do not dare to think I am left hollowed.”

Saruman staggered back, falling to one knee a few paces from her.

“My Lady,” he gasped, “Forgive me, I meant no ill-will.”

The storm abated, a final twist of wind curling around them before the air went still again. Galadriel drew her hood back over her hair and stepped around his prone figure. As she walked past him her bare feet left no prints. Her host followed, Saruman climbing to his feet and drawing his cloaks around himself with a sweep of his hands, striding back into the woods.

Birdsong began to filter back in through the trees, the December sun shining a little warmer over them.

Far-seeing indeed was the head of the Istari, but a broil had descended before his eyes, and he peered now through fog and mist.

Galadriel clutched the box a little tighter to her, leading the procession in solemn steps. Gandalf's words whispered in her mind.

 

_Saruman believes it is only great power that can hold evil in check. But that is not what I have found. I've found it is the small things, everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keeps the darkness at bay. Simple acts of kindness and love._

 

A small smile crooked the corners of her lips.

Even in the foulest dark, there was light.

There was always light.

 

 

*

  _T.A 2941_

_November 23rd_

 

 

 

Thorin heaved a long, mournful sigh and dropped his head down into his hands.

Climbing out of his bed had been like dragging himself through a mire of sticky, clasping mud. He wasn't particularly tired – not beyond the underlying weight of weariness he always seemed to carry now – but some unknown dread had settled in his stomach after a few hours of restless sleep. Dawn had broken, a guard had left a tray of breakfast in his dining room, and still he'd struggled to will his limbs into movement.

By the time he crawled from under his blankets, he felt more exhausted than the night before. His muscles ached, and a mist had settled itself in the valley between his brain and eyes. It had been almost midday when he'd finally dressed and eaten, and as he sat at his writing desk he could almost hear his bed calling to him.

Thorin flexed his fingers, picking up his quill and staring down at the blank paper.

His coronation song. The first words he'd speak to his people after the crown had been placed on his head. Words of promise. In just a few lines he had to convince his people he'd be a good king. That their trust in him was well placed.

An impossible task.

He felt heavier than ever – as if his body was trying to return to the stone. Thorin pressed his hand over his heart, a sudden tightness in his chest, his breathing suddenly laboured.

What foul, dark magic was keeping his soul bound to mortal flesh? What was tying him to this world? He could feel it in him, a numb, deep weight, a constant reminder of the cocoon of death he'd been ripped back from. Awoken from an eternal sleep – and Mahal, what did it mean, that he hadn't seen the Halls?

Had he been stopped before he'd entered them? Had his memories been wiped from his mind as he was returned to the world of the living?

Or did they not exist?

The quill dropped down onto the desk as Thorin pressed his hands to his face.

He was the beaten metal between the hammer and forge, and the smith crude, unpractised. The most fundamental of his beliefs had been shaken. Was he not granted a place amongst his fathers? Did the Halls exist only in lore and legend?

It took him a long while before he could bring his hands away from his face again and reach for his quill, sweat prickling over his skin. His stomach rolled sickly, and he could sense the moments passing him by.

Dís had insisted he and her eat together tonight, and he had promised to show her a version of his song for her approval. They'd spent the first day and night together – him and her, and Fíli and Kíli. She'd insisted on it, in no uncertain terms. Tomorrow they would be the royal line of Durin, but that night they'd been family for no one else but themselves. The rest of the company had filtered in the next day to greet her, and a slightly nervous looking Bilbo had been introduced to her.

Naturally they'd got on tremendously. Dís had always loved good stories, and Bilbo was an excellent story-teller. Not always the most truthful, Thorin had noted, but always entertaining. At first it had been a welcome relief to see them fall so naturally into companionship, and then...

Thorin’s nib dripped ink down onto the parchment, staining the surface like blood.

Then he'd felt like he'd drained away, swallowed by shadow, and had been struck dumb by thoughts swirling around his mind. If he'd left, they wouldn't have noticed. He could've disappeared, and neither would follow, nor care.

Just thinking about it made a chill rush down him, his ribs constricting.

Thorin exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking several slow, deep breaths. An old trick to deal with night-terrors, but it helped calm his racing heart and ease the tightness in his chest.

When he had finished this, he would visit Fíli.

The lad was walking now, leaning heavily on a cane or on his brother's arm – helped by his mother. She'd been by his side for the last eight days, ever since she'd arrived in Erebor. The elf stationed with him had, much to his chagrin, sped along the process remarkably, and Bilbo, Dís, Fíli, and Kíli only had positive things to say about her presence.

Even if she had helped his nephew, Thorin wasn't a fool. She was no trained healer – not one of the elves who trained under Lord Elrond, and not one from Thranduil's ranks of healers. No, she was the captain of his guard – and now his eyes and ears in the mountain.

He'd voiced his concerns to Dís, and while she'd vowed to keep an eye on her, he knew his nephews were getting attached to her – Kíli in particular. His nephew had always harboured curiosity for the elves, and Thorin hadn't missed his awe and delight in Rivendell. Kíli had always been too quick to trust, too quick to believe. Out of any of them, he'd be the easiest for her to beguile.

Thorin heaved another long sigh and rubbed at his temples.

Coronation song.

He hummed the ancient tune under his breath, closing his eyes.

 

_Oh, poetry! Yes, I do love a bit of poetry. No one writes poetry to lie, after all, it's the most truthful of all the arts. Songs and paintings, bah. Who's ever had their portrait drawn and thought to themselves: Goodness! Just like a mirror! No, no. How wonderful I look! How kind the artist has been! That's painting – and songs are just as bad. Very pretty, very impressive – very difficult to do, too! But poetry... Well, poetry's the language of the heart, isn't it?_

 

_You write songs all the time. You wrote the man in the moon song, and the one you sang to the spiders._

 

_I do not write songs! I write poetry, and sometimes set it to a little tune. A song is a... a twisty, turny thing that tries to be clever or impressive – or to tell some great epic. My poems set to melodies aren't songs. After all, no one's ever going to be singing them other than myself! And besides, that spider one was just a silly old thing to confuse them, don't lump that in with the ones I actually worked on._

 

Poetry, set to music. The language of the heart.

Thorin wasn't convinced there were any words left in his heart. He wished, suddenly and almost violently, the door behind him would open and Bilbo would appear, a tray of tea in his hands and some story of what he'd seen in Erebor on his lips.

But the door stayed closed, and the room was silent.

He dipped his pen in the ink, heaving another long-suffering sigh, and began to write, Bilbo's words echoing around his head.

 

_Well, poetry's the language of the heart, isn't it?_

 

Even though his heart felt as empty, as dull, as numb as the rest of him, he had to try.

As Thorin began to write, like old, rusty gears groaning into life, the words began to drip from his nib – a steady trickle of ink across the paper. Some of the vicious tension in his chest and shoulders gave way, and the scratch of the pen made a soft, soothing sound.

He had time, still. Dís would provide helpful advice, as would Bilbo – whether he asked the latter, or not. The thought of Bilbo scribbling over his words brought the ghost of a smile to his lips, and the minutes slipped by unnoticed as he wrote.

 

 

 

*

  _T.A 2941_

_November 30th_

 

 

Valka looped the bright red strip of leather around her braids, pulling them up so they cascaded over her shoulders like an obsidian waterfall, tipped with gold and pearl. She drew a dark red cloak over her shoulders, brushing down the soft suede.

Her father had found it in their old storerooms, finished save for a few embellishments here and there. But she preferred it a little plainer – and parading around in gems didn't feel right, not when they were still uncovering remains of their kin – bones and skin as fragile as paper. With the Mannur Bunûn repaired, today she was meant to be helping her father on the textile floor, where their family's shop had stood.

In the evening she'd find Thorin Stonehelm and introduce him to Bera – maybe convince him to take supper with them instead of his father. Bera had discovered the most amazing rooms, fantastic nooks and crannies, many too small and tucked away for Smaug to have gotten into.

Thorin would love them. He'd always loved history, and Erebor was full of it – he'd know what some of the mosaics and tapestries were, he'd know what rooms were which, and what some of the more mysterious inscriptions meant.

Valka pushed open her door, tucking her beard into her belt and striding towards the main walkway.

But first...

She'd heard Prince Fíli would be making his first public appearance, hale and hearty, the heir to the throne of Durin.

To say she was curious about the Royal Family would be an understatement. Although she hadn't been able to catch a glimpse of her, the Lady Dís had been in Erebor for just over two weeks. She'd been briefly introduced to Prince Kíli by Bera, the two of them having come across the young prince leading the elven healer back towards the King's Chambers. Surprised and flustered, she'd hardly made a smooth first impression, but Bera had assured her she'd done a good enough job.

Prince Kíli looked a lot like King Thorin and the Lady Dís. Waves of dark hair down his back, a strong brow, but those fine, almost delicate Durin features. They stood out in a crowd, and Prince Kíli's wide, soft eyes and sparse beard had been even more shocking up close.

His older brother, however, apparently had much stronger features and a fine beard – his hair golden and radiant.

Valka stepped out onto one of the crowded balconies, looking out across the walkway leading to and from the throne.

In her youth she'd always thought the King sat there all day, but it turned out he was only there for special occasions and meeting dignitaries. There were actually, Bera had explained, whole chambers for his use when dealing with different kingly duties.

On the seat of the throne of Erebor, a large geode had been placed on the stone.

It represented the king and sat watch in place when the king was away from the throne. Dark grey and flecked with glittering blues and silver, its curves and angles grand and sweeping, Valka couldn't help but imagine it would somehow be warm to touch – and maybe, if you held it, Mahal himself would guide or instruct you.

She shivered, tearing her gaze away as a single trumpet sounded out.

The crowd turned, and though many of the balconies were empty, a few were crowded with dwarves. Valka let her elbows rest on the thick, marble railing, watching as three figures stepped from the shadows.

There was Prince Kíli, mithril clasps in his hair and dressed in dark blues and silvers – a circlet of silver and sapphires on his brow. His eyes seemed to shine with light, and it was clear he was fighting a grin off his lips. And there the Lady Dís, as regal as Erebor itself, her dark, braided hair shot through with silver streaks. Her beard was in elegant braids, thin strands of silver and mithril woven through them.

She, too, was in dark blues and silvers, a mithril diadem nestled into her hair. It seemed to drip with silver and sapphires, highlighted with lapis lazuli and benitoite. Each step she took was powerful, slow and stately.

Valka shivered, turning her gaze to the figure between them.

Locks of golden hair hung down his shoulders, braids clasped with gold. The circlet on his head was studded with rubies and emeralds, the braids in his moustache tipped with gold. He was dressed in warm, vibrant reds, and though he leaned heavily on his mother and brother's arms, he walked with all the dignity and surety of an ancient king.

The thunderous applause from around her felt muffled, as if from a great distance, Valka's eyes fixed on his face.

Prince Fíli was, without a doubt, the most handsome, striking, beautiful dwarf she had ever seen. He seemed almost to glow, and as she gripped the marble railing, Valka was left breathless.

Slowly he walked to the steps leading up to the throne, ducking his head low as he bowed to the stone – Prince Kíli and the Lady Dís following his lead. From above came a single note on a horn, and she – along with the other dwarves – turned to look up at the Royal Balcony.

King Thorin II stood in all his finery, Balin Fundinson on his right and Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit, on his left.

Balin's voice echoed clearly in the chamber, a wide beam on his wrinkled, kindly face.

“Igyidî! Uzbad-dashat Fíli tabsini niktunulmâ!”

The chamber erupted into cheers, Valka's gaze turning back towards the eldest prince. There was a flush to his cheeks, an almost bashful smile on his lips as his brother grinned at the crowds.

Prince Fíli bowed low to the balcony before turning with his family's help.

A multitude of cheers echoed his procession down the walkway and out of the public eye again, and as King Thorin, Balin, and the hobbit disappeared from their balcony, an excited buzz hung in the air.

Dwarves turned to each other, chattering excitedly and clapping each other on the backs and arms. As if through a hundred sheets of linen Valka could hear several dwarves complementing the princes and king on their hardiness and on Prince Fíli's recovery – as well as his good looks.

But all Valka was listening to was the slamming of her own heart against her ribs, and the rising tide of dread in her belly.

 

 

 

*

  _T.A 2941_

_December 4th_

 

 

“You can touch it,” Thorin said in a low voice, illuminated by two lamps on a low table, the walls of the small room glittering with opal.

“Are you sure...? I wouldn't want to overstep,” whispered Bilbo, one hand half outstretched even as he hesitated.

Thorin huffed out a laugh and gently took Bilbo's wrist, guiding his fingers forwards.

“There's no one else here. Come. Is it not warm beneath your hand?”

The hobbit shook his head fondly, rolling his eyes. Thorin crooked a small smile and pressed Bilbo's hand against the stone, taking his own away and clasping them behind his back.

Before them stood the Stones of the Seven Fathers, set upon stands of jewel-encrusted marble – though the one on the far right was missing, sat upon the throne of Erebor in Thorin's place.

Not quite blocks and not quite spheres, each was a different shape of similar size – roughly that of a dwarf's torso. Each glittered in the low light, and to his eyes they seemed to pulse with hazy light - as if producing their own glow, rather than reflecting the lamps.

They had been placed in a crescent opposite the door. As they’d entered the room, Thorin had lead Bilbo left, to the first stone sitting on its pedestal.

“It is warm,” Bilbo murmured, wonder in his voice, “And it feels... well, it feels all... tingly. What is that? It feels like--...” he cut himself off but continued when Thorin looked at him questioningly, “It feels like Rivendell. Like magic.”

“It has no elven magic in it,” Thorin grumbled, “These stones were brought from where our fathers woke beneath the earth. Durin's Stone sits upon the throne, in my absence, and these reside here until needed. Every dwarven kingdom has a set. It has nothing to do with elves. ”

“Then it's another magic,” the hobbit replied easily, shrugging a shoulder.

Bilbo touched both hands to the stone, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips. Thorin couldn't help but move to stand beside him again, looking down at the geode. Each was shot through with different coloured minerals and gems, swirling through them like the faint star-clouds in the sky on a clear night, cracked open in places to reveal the crystal-encrusted insides in their multitudes.

“It's said only a rightful heir to the throne can move the Stones,” Thorin said thoughtfully.

The hobbit crooked an eyebrow.

“Oh? I suppose you put the one on the throne, then?”

Thorin’s fingers tightened around his own wrist.

“Dáin did.”

He hadn't yet tried to move one. The thought of failing, of Balin and Dwalin and Dáin watching him unable to pick it up, of feeling the stone unyielding and cold beneath his hands... It had made sickness curl in his gut, and sweat bead on his brow.

“Oh,” breathed Bilbo, looking back at the geode.

“The one beneath your fingers is the Stone of Národ, father of the Firebeards. See the fire in it? Garnet,” Thorin said softly, after a short silence, “They took their name from the colour of the rock they woke from. And their beards, of course.”

“Of course,” Bilbo laughed, taking his hands back. He stepped over to the next, brushing his fingertips over the surface, “And this one?”

“The Stone of Khardín, father of the Broadbeams. This gem is sea-foam agate.”

Bilbo looked up at him, cocking an eyebrow.

“And the name?”

“An ancient mistranslation into Westron,” Thorin admitted with an amused huff of air, “The Khuzdul means broad arm, not beam.”

The hobbit laughed, his features crinkling with delight – Thorin unable to bite back his own small grin. He could feel some of the aching tension slip from his bones, gratefulness at Bilbo’s insistence they went for a walk bubbling up inside him. In hindsight it had been a long time since he’d left his chambers for a reason other than his duties, or to check on Fíli’s progress.

“Oh, the stubbornness of dwarves! Typical, really. Tell me about this marvellous green one,” Bilbo said, moving on to the next and touching at the clustered gems.

Thorin followed, keeping his hands clasped behind his back.

“The Stone of Fróra, father of the Ironfists. She woke amid malachite. She--”

“--Hold on, hold on, she?” interrupted the hobbit, “Didn't you say the 'father of the Ironfists'?”

Thorin inclined his head.

“I did. Father is the word we took as equivalent to 'those first made by Mahal'. Fróra was one of the original seven forged by his hand, and is one of the Seven Fathers.”

Bilbo scratched at his chin, putting one hand on his hip.

“Even though she's a, well. A woman?”

“Even though?” Thorin chuckled, shaking his head a little, “Hobbits have the same ideas as menfolk do, then. We don't measure by such divides among dwarves. There are what you would call male and female – but there are also those who are neither, or both at once, or one for a while and then the other; and those who are neither your male or female, but something else by their own understanding.”

The hobbit's eyes were wide, his mouth a little open as he stared up at Thorin.

“But...! But...! What about--... What about children? And marriage?”

“Aye, we have them,” said Thorin, amusement in his tone.

Really, he'd suspected hobbits had the same thoughts. Bilbo’s own campfire stories aside, whilst moving from Erebor to Ered Luin and travelling the Dunlands in search for his father, Thorin had come across many hobbits from the surrounding lands.

They hadn't taken much with him, and he'd found himself caring little for them in return, but he'd seen how they emulated the big folk – even if they didn't like to admit it.

“But...! You mean... You mean to say...” Bilbo blustered.

“Mahal doesn't gift all his children with the ability to create life, even when both partners have the tools. Unlike hobbits, I would imagine from tales of your extended family,” he added, a little drily.

Bilbo huffed out a noise, touching at the curve of the malachite as Thorin continued.

“If a partnership conceives, they usually have more than one child. Mahal forges each of us, and he rarely leaves those who want children without them. For our kind children are a rare gift, not a guarantee.”

The hobbit paused. He glanced up from the stone, nose twitching as he looked away again.

“And you? Did you--... Rather, do you want... all that...?”

“I was lucky enough to have had a hand in raising Fíli and Kíli,” he replied, moving on to the next stone, “This is the Stone of Dwólir, father of the Stiffbeards. They awoke amid sugilite. Another father of note to you, perhaps, as they carried all twelve of the first of the Stiffbeard line, and preferred not to be thought of as a singular gender.”

Bilbo rubbed his fingers against his temples, nose scrunched.

“So if--... If they carried the... Then they were actually--”

“--As I said,” Thorin interrupted gently, “We don't classify as your kind do. To put it bluntly... It doesn't matter whether you wield axe or sword, we see a warrior regardless.”

The hobbit fell silent for a long moment, running his thumb over the swirling streaks of crystal within the stone.

“Well,” he finally murmured, “That all sounds very... reasonable. I knew a hobbit – a Took, from my mother's side – who stopped wearing dresses one day and moved to Bree. Sh-- … He was the talk of the Shire, of course, that sort of thing just isn't done. But he lives a very happy life, from what I've heard, and really, why shouldn't he? Yes, I rather think... I rather think your way is quite right.”

Bilbo nodded his head a few times, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking from heel to toe, his brow furrowed in thought.

Thorin crooked a small smile and nudged his shoulder as he walked past him, gesturing to the next stone.

“The Stone of Bílan, father of the Blacklocks who awoke amid imperial topaz as bright as sunbeams. The Stone of Órva, father of the Stonefoots, who woke in a cavern of moonstone. And finally,” he said, stopping at the last, empty pedestal, “The Stone of Durin, father of the Longbeards, who awoke amid azurite; and alone.”

“Alone...?” Echoed the hobbit, moving to stand beside him.

Thorin inclined his head, glancing over to Bilbo.

“I thought you knew the story.”

“Well!” Bilbo huffed, crossing his arms and frowning up at him, “It was told to me quite a long time ago now, and on a day I was in an _exceptionally_ foul mood – hungry, and crusted with troll snot, if memory serves,” he sniffed, looking so affronted Thorin had to physically bite back a laugh, “You'll have to forgive me if I've forgotten some of the finer details.”

He reached out, clapping a hand to Bilbo's shoulder.

“Mahal – whom you know as Aulë – created us, long before the elves walked upon this earth, and longer still before men. Growing tired of waiting for the elves to come, he sought to create children he could love, and pass his knowledge onto. However, Mahal only had an idea of Eru's will. He gave us two arms, two legs. A head, a torso. Eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. Beards and hair. Fingers,” he said, splaying his out before him, “And toes. But we were not like elves.”

Thorin turned, meandering between the stones as Bilbo curiously touched at them again.

“Mahal made us denser. Stronger, against the chaos of the Enemy. He made us unwilling to endure servitude to others. He created us to love the mountains he'd sung of, to hold craft and creation dear. He taught us how to love as he loved Yavanna, and to value our skill, our knowledge, and our children. First Durin, then Národ, then Dwólir, then Bílan, then Khardín, then Fróra, then Órva - though he created all dwarves equal. But he didn't have the ability to give his first seven life. They followed his thought, learned his songs and the language he'd created, but they didn't truly live.”

Bilbo hummed out a little noise, resting his hand against the Stone of Órva, closing his eyes as if he was listening to something far away. He seemed lit by some inner glow, his head tilted to the side, and his features soft.

Thorin swallowed, turning his gaze away.

“Eru called to Mahal, asking why he had tried to exceed his power and make new life. Mahal begged for forgiveness – he had been inspired by Eru's visions of his future children, and by the love born between him and Yavanna. They had only wanted to share the beauty of the earth, and to teach and guide, as Eru had done. Then Mahal, weeping, raised his hammer into the air to return his children to the stone. But as they fell to their knees in fear, Eru stopped Mahal's hand.”

“They had life,” said the hobbit softly, looking up at Thorin.

Thorin crooked a smile and nodded his head.

“They had life. Eru had lit the forge in each of their hearts. By Eru's bidding, Mahal took each of the seven and laid them in a chamber he had carved for them, and sent them to sleep until they were to wake. He also fashioned six more, and laid them down beside six of the Seven Fathers, and set a great love in their breasts, of the like between himself and Yavanna.”

Bilbo frowned, trailing his fingers over the Stone of Národ.

“Except Durin.”

“Except Durin,” repeated Thorin, “Who woke alone.”

“Hardly very fair,” huffed Bilbo, “But he must've found someone, otherwise there'd be no line of Durin.”

Thorin breathed out a low chuckle, letting his own fingers follow the swirling patterns in the Stone of Khardín.

“Quite. Some stories say his partner was one of the first children of the other Fathers. Some scholars speculate it may have been one of the early menfolk. Fewer still write it may have been an elf – hence why no records of his partner exist,” he grumbled, shaking his head at the thought.

Bilbo laughed.

“Oh, it would serve you right to have some elven blood in you, you know!”

“Don't jest,” he scowled, nudging Bilbo with his elbow, “It's bad enough to know such speculation exists, much less speculate on it myself.”

The hobbit laughed again, giving his arm a shove and walking between the stones once more.

“Well, what do you think, then?”

Thorin's scowl softened to a frown. He let his palm rest against the warm rock, trying to feel the tingling sensation Bilbo spoke of. All he felt was gems and stone, but there was heat there, and he felt soothed just by touching it.

“... I do not know...”

“Perhaps,” Bilbo said, a smile on his face as he stopped opposite him and crooked an eyebrow, “It was a hobbit.”

Thorin glanced up sharply and laughed – a short, staccato sound.

A hobbit? Durin had lived until the first age, as Menfolk had awoken with the sun. Hobbits, as Bilbo had explained, believed themselves to be some descendant from the Men.

“Perhaps,” repeated Thorin, “Though it would have had to have been one of the very first.”

“Mmn,” Bilbo nodded, amusement written all over his features, “Still. A hobbit's better than an elf, isn't it?”

Thorin snorted, nodding his head towards the door and moving to lead Bilbo out from the room – picking up their lamps and handing one over to the hobbit.

“By quite the margin.”

It wasn't unthinkable. Similar stature, similar preference to live under stone or earth, similar hardiness – as he'd found out first-hand.

The first dwarf, and the first hobbit.

Thorin closed the door behind them, following Bilbo along the narrow corridor towards the King's Chambers – the Seven Stones guarded in the heart of them, their location hidden to all but a few.

Durin, and a hobbit.

Better than a man, and certainly better than an elf.

 

 

 

*

  _T.A 2941_

_December 6th_

 

 

“Ma! Ma! Ma! _Ma_! _M--_!”

“--Gimli, my love, I swear on Mahal if you keep that up I will put you on the first wagon back to the Blue Mountains,” said Amli, the never-ending – but very much frayed – patience of an adoring mother in her voice. She turned to her son, his head poking out from between the flaps of material providing a roof and walls to the cart.

Amli leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead, grasping his impressively bearded cheeks between her hands – all the while keeping pace as the cart moved.

She'd offered to walk beside Halla's cart, the inside stuffed with her and Bombur’s children – Amli’s own son great friends with them.

It also meant Halla could take her youngest child, Ríla, just a year old, in Amli's own cart and nurse her in relative peace and quiet – along with Bala, the tiny dwarf only two. With fourteen little ones in total, Halla could use the rest and calm.

“You're thirty-four, love, not four. What is it?”

“Árnetta said she's going to hurl,” Gimli said sincerely, “She--...”

From inside the cart came the sound of retching, and the squeals of young dwarves.

Amli took a slow, deep breath through her nose. She turned to Ballur, turned sixty a few months back and sitting behind the reigns of the ponies tethered to cart, motioning for him to stop with a shout.

He sighed, shaking his head, and pulled the ponies over to the side before stopping them. He hopped down from the cart, adjusting his hat covering some of his bright red hair.

Amli climbed into the cart, plucking up the wailing dwarrow, all of eight years old. She carried her out, sitting her down on a nearby boulder after brushing the fine layer of snow from it.

“Ballur, dear, get my son to help you clear up the mess – and tell Hombur to lead the others out, please,” she called.

Amli smiled at the sobbing child, taking a thick handkerchief from her pocket and wiping down her little face and over the soft strands of her beard.

“There there, jatith, it's alright. Mahal didn't make us to roll around in bumpy carts. Here,” she said, lifting her water skin to the little child's lips, helping her drink a few mouthfuls as she wiped away the tears on her skin.

They were midway through the Misty Mountain pass, carts rumbling by theirs as the caravan moved ever onwards. It was cold, and all were bundled up tight, but Árnetta's clothing was thankfully free of mess.

“She threw up! I saw it!” Flóri crowed, rushing up as Hombur lead the other dwarrows out, two little figures in his arms, “She got it all in Rúto's hat!”

Amli smiled at the little boy – all wide green eyes and tumbling chestnut locks, his cheeks furred with soft hair and a grin on his face.

“Did she? Well, isn't that good of her – and good of Rúto to lend their hat, hmn?”

From the scowl on Rúto's face as they climbed from the cart, it had been an act done out of necessity rather than charity. The dwarrows gathered around Amli and Árnetta, Hombur keeping the younger ones out of the path. He waved and smiled at the carts, assuring them everything was fine and they’d be back on the road in a few moments.

“I told her to tell you sooner! I said she should say something the minute she first felt bad, and then she went all green,” grumped the Rúto, their braids a little flattened from being under a hat. A hat now in the hands of Ballur, his nose wrinkled as he held it at arm’s length, carrying it off the path to empty it out.

Gimli jumped down from the cart, jogging over to his mother and Árnetta.

“All cleared up! Are you feeling better?” he asked, sincerely. Árnetta nodded solemnly, wiping her little hands on her tunic and sniffling, breath crystallising in the cold air.

“Is Rúto cross at me?” she whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes.

Amli leaned in to kiss her forehead, hiding a smile as Rúto sighed heavily and all but stomped over.

“No, jatith,” they grumbled, picking up the little dwarf and holding her close, “I'm not cross. But _tell_ us next time you feel sick. More than a few seconds before you actually throw up,” they added, pressing a kiss to their sister's cheek.

Árnetta nodded woefully, burying her face in Rúto's neck and clinging to them. They held her close, every bit the loving older sibling despite the scowl on their face.

Ballur returned, still holding the hat at arm's length.

“Right. I've emptied it, and done my best to scrub it out, but it'll need a wash later. Maybe some boiling water? Maybe just a new hat, Rúto.”

“It _was_ a new hat,” Rúto grumbled, “Uncle Bofur gave it me before he left. Amli, can we wash it? It can be washed, can't it?” they asked, turning to her.

Amli nodded, picking up tiny Flóri before he could go rushing off and putting him back in the cart despite protests – his sister Lúta immediately distracting him back into the warm nest of blankets and pillows.

“Of course it can,” she smiled.

Ballur gingerly put the hat into a leather bag, tying up the top.

“I'll keep this with me at the front. For the smell. Hey, jatith,” he smiled, taking Árnetta from Rúto's arms as they clambered back into the cart to join the rest, “Do you wanna ride with me up front? Hmn? It'll be cold, but you'll feel better. You can sit on my knees and I'll wrap a big blanket around you. Sound fun?”

Árnetta nodded eagerly, clinging to him as he kissed her forehead.

“Alright. Frár,” he said to the young dwarf nearest to the entrance of the cart, “Pass me a blanket. Thanks.”

Ballur took it, effortlessly wrapping Árnetta up into a bundle and taking his place at the reigns again, his little sister a warm, happy lump on his knees, and his arms a bracket around her to keep her from falling.

Amli smiled fondly, her heart swelling with love for this family. To have gone through so much, to have lost so much for many of them, and yet there was nothing but love between them. For a moment she was overwhelmingly proud of them all, her eyes stinging.

She took a deep breath, going to the doors of the cart.

“Ballur and Árnetta are up front,” she said, “Ríla and Bala are with Halla in my cart, and Hallur is riding with Flói. So who do we have in here, hmn? Hombur, Lúta, Rúto, Frár, Flóri, Jyor, Athakan, Árni, Árna... and Gimli,” she counted, “Fifteen. Good! Now if anyone else feels sick, let me know right away.”

The dwarrows nodded, the older siblings settling the younger ones down into the warm nest – young Athakan and Flóri already dozing off.

Family was forged stronger than just blood. Family was forged from love, burning as hot and fierce as Mahal's smithy, with strength enough to overcome anything. She leaned into the cart, pressing a kiss to Gimli's cheek despite his squawks and complaints, laughing as she dropped back onto the frozen earth.

She helped Ballur pull the cart back into the procession, falling into step beside it again, a warm smile still on her lips.

Soon she'd be back in Erebor, with her husband in her arms and her son at their sides. Her family would be whole again, and they'd be home.

From inside the cart came the sound of soft singing – Lúta's voice, and a lullaby every dwarf knew. She hummed along, closing her eyes at the last lines.

[ _Lai' - 'Ibinê mim tanniki azhâr dê_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4)  
[ _Lai' - 'Ibinê mim tanniki azhâr dê._ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4)

She was going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find [me](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com), and [Tex](http://www.texasdreamer01.tumblr.com) all on tumblr! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sending them a message, too! 
> 
> [Youtube video of 'Ibinê Mim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4).  
> [Azhâr's soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari).
> 
> List of Khuzdul and Sindarin used in order of appearance:  
> Amad - Mother  
> Nûlukhithê - My little moon  
> Madtithbirzulê - My little golden heart  
> Ibinê mim - My little gem  
> Meleth nín - My love
> 
> A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!  
> Silivren penna míriel,  
> O menel aglar elenath!  
> Na-chaered palan-díriel,  
> O galadhremmin ennorath,  
> Fanuilos, le linnathon,  
> Nef aear, sí nef aearon!
> 
> Oh! Elbereth Star-kindler!  
> Like jewels that glitter, slanting hither  
> From the firmament, the glory of the starry host!  
> I gazed out there, to yonder, thither,  
> From Middle Earth's tree-tangled coast,  
> Fanuilos, I sing to thee,  
> On this side of the sea, on this side of the Great Wide Sea!
> 
> Amrâlimê - Love of mine  
> Ma hanyat? Istalme i cotto. Istalme lúmequentale. Arda same mauré athiewa. Cenin aica umbar, ar fánar fantar anár. Áva lave huinen, Curumo - Do you understand? We know the Enemy. We know our history. Arda needs aid. I forsee a fell fate, and clouds cover the sun. Do not yield to the darkness, Curumo  
> Ona ta a'amin, massániënya. Amin utue palantír Orthancesse, ar i palantír Minas Anoresse harea ná harwë. Cenasit naranta palantíro, hya vanwaner ondoli - Give it to me, my Lady. I found a palantír at Orthanc, and the one at Minas Anor is wounded. Perhaps it is a shard of the latter, or one of the lost stones  
> Tyé polin palancenëa, Curumo, ananta tyé uan cenëa. Aa' menealle nauva calen ar' malta. Namárië - You may be far-seeing, Curumo, and yet you do not see. May your ways be green and golden. Farewell  
> Mannur Bunûn - Market of Treasures  
> Igyidî! Uzbad-dashat Fíli tabsini niktunulmâ! - Rejoice! Prince Fíli walks among us!  
> jatith - Little squeaker  
> Lai' - 'Ibinê mim tanniki azhâr dê - Look – my little gem comes home to me


	10. Mamannâlân

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so much for the fantastic support! I really don't have words for how grateful I am you're enjoying the story so far! It really encourages and inspires me to keep writing, even in the darkest times. Thank you again!
> 
> I'd also like to add my apologies for the wait between this chapter and the previous one. Real life is hard!
> 
> Please make sure to go back a few chapters to check out the amazing art by [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), [Pop](http://www.poplitealqueen.tumblr.com) and [Quel](http://www.tosquinha.tumblr.com), as well as the piece by Ruto in this chapter!
> 
> And to my two betas who put in a simply unbelievable amount of work, [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com) and [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), I really couldn't do any of this without your help. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
> 
>  [Please come say hi to me on Tumblr!](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)
> 
> I'd also like to add some potential trigger warnings on this chapter, to do with anxiety, depression, and panic attacks. Please be aware symptoms of these are explored in the following chapter <3

 

 

 _T.A 2941_  
_December 10th_

 

 

 

The sandstone was warm, gritty beneath his palms. An archway carved into the stone was just ahead of him, but the next few steps were missing – crumbled into a gaping void below. He reached out, the gap just narrow enough for him to stretch his arms out and heave his upper body onto the next section. For a moment his feet swung in the air, dizziness rushing up from his soles.

Thorin gritted his teeth, pushing against the wall of the tower for leverage until he'd dragged himself up onto the firm stone.

He looked down, the tower spiralling down beneath him, dark and bottomless. It hadn't looked this tall from the outside. He'd wandered round a corner between rolling, green hills and come across the monument; square, squat, and abandoned.

The building had been grey on the outside, but here it was white and gold.

Thorin stood, climbing the last few stairs and stepping through the archway. He looked around, confusion twisting his features.

The floor was covered in a thick red carpet, the middle sunken with short stairs down into it. Big, wide cushions in many colours were arranged around low tables, each set with plates and cups. Food and drink had been laid out, but the room was empty. Strips of gauze and silk dyed in pale pinks, whites, and yellows twisted in silent dance.

He shivered.

It was as if a party had been suddenly interrupted, and all the guests had fled. Guests not of a dwarf's stature – nor a hobbit's, he noted as he slowly walked through the room. Elves, then, from the opulence and the style of the food on the tables, not menfolk. Or at least not menfolk as he knew them.

Opposite the arch he'd come through stood another, a dark red curtain hanging across it. The material billowed and snapped in the breeze, the only sound in the room.

Thorin headed towards it, manoeuvring past the cushions and tables – down into the sunken middle and up a few steps to the outer ring. He gripped one end of the heavy curtain, drawing it back.

Light brighter than almost any other blinded him. He threw up his arm to cover his eyes, walking shakily out onto the grey cobbles beneath his feet. Wind whipped over his body, warm and laden with the smell of brine. The sound of waves slapping against stone echoed around him as gulls cried from above.

He dropped his arm, eyes burning.

The cobbles sank gently downwards into the sea, its waters rolling against the quay. The sun – or something like it – sat low on the horizon, a white like the sheen of fresh snow bursting from it, but it was ringed in black as dark as the deepest mine. Around it the sky was slashed with oranges and purples; cloudless and vast.

Huge, magnificent ships scythed through the water. Like swans, deer, and horses, they had been shaped in such a way that they seemed alive upon the waves, their sails full as they weaved and danced in front of the sun.

Thorin fell to his knees, his heart pounding in his chest. Never had he seen anything as beautiful as the sight before him. He felt as weightless as the air itself, and yet like he wasn't there at all.

Thorin woke with a shout, reaching out and gripping the figure looming over him.

“The ships...!” gasped Thorin as the figure squawked out a startled noise, “Dâhanigh... vist...” he blinked, shaking his head a little to clear his vision and shift the fog from his mind.

He was grasping Bilbo's arms, the hobbit half-bent over his bed, his hazel eyes wide and his mouth a little open. Thorin slowly let go of Bilbo's forearms, breathing heavily. He pushed himself to sit, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Bilbo...?”

“Well...! If I hadn't been awake before, I certainly am now!” Bilbo grumped, rubbing his arms where Thorin had grabbed him, “Though I suppose that'll teach me to try and wake you up by shaking you. My word, you were in a heavy sleep! I was knocking and calling, you know. Didn't you hear?”

“No,” croaked Thorin, shaking his head again. He felt loose and wobbly all over, his muscles aching like he'd walked a great distance, “No, I... I was in a dream...”

Bilbo quirked a little grin, sitting down on the edge of the bed as Thorin composed himself.

“It seemed like a nice one. I'm sorry to have woken you from it – and for giving you such a fright,” he added, a little sheepishly.

“Think nothing of it,” muttered Thorin, waving a hand at Bilbo. He scraped his hair back from his face, pulling his loose sleep shirt back into place and squinting at Bilbo, “... Why _have_ you woken me up? It can't be past nine.”

The hobbit smiled, patting Thorin's knee beneath the blankets and moving to his feet.

“Close to it. What happened to you rising before the sun? You were always the first one awake on the quest – sometimes it seemed like you didn't sleep at all!”

“Sometimes I didn't,” Thorin replied quietly, swinging his legs out of his bed and standing, stretching his arms above his head with a deep yawn.

“Mmn. Well,” Bilbo continued, pulling a sympathetic face, “Balin's been waiting for you to wake and eat breakfast. He's got your coronation robes ready.”

Coronation robes.

“Oh,” Thorin breathed, dropping his arms and staring at the wall, “The coronation. It's today.”

He'd put it off as long as possible. First it was until Dís had arrived, and then it was until Fíli was well enough to attend, and then... Then it was writing his coronation song, getting enough supplies ready for the feast, preparing the rooms and the walkway, and ensuring the menfolk were provided for before Erebor could be shown to be hosting a celebration.

But now it had been three weeks since Dís had come. Fíli was walking unaided, his song was written, and a substantial sum had been paid for enough supplies for a feast. Invitations to the menfolk – and to Thranduil, much to Thorin's chagrin and Bilbo's insistence – had been sent out, and the rooms had been restored. The throne had been repaired, and on Fíli's suggestion, the mount for the Arkenstone had been taken out.

After all, as his nephew had pointed out, Erebor had been a kingdom before the Arkenstone had been found. It would be a kingdom after it was gone.

“It's today,” Bilbo repeated, clasping his hands behind his back, “I'll leave you to dress. Breakfast's in your sitting room, though I should imagine it's cold by now. Do you... Are you going to be alright...?”

“I'm fine,” Thorin nodded, wrenching himself away from his thoughts and rubbing his hands over his face, “Send Balin to me, if you will.”

The sooner the day was over with, the better.

“Alright,” sighed Bilbo, reaching out to pat his arm, “Best of luck. You've practised it all enough, after all. You'll do yourself proud, Thorin.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, throat tightening a little. The hobbit nodded, clasping his hands behind his back once more and turning. He watched Bilbo leave the room, gently closing the door behind himself – his footsteps as silent as ever on Erebor's floors.

With a heavy, weary sigh he dressed and ate what he could bear to from the tray of breakfast, gulping at the tepid coffee.

Before long the doors opened, Dís and Balin entering with two chests full of the necessary bits and pieces. Thorin ignored the weighty dread in his stomach, his sister brushing out and braiding his hair as he recited Balin's written speeches for the feast – memorised over the last few days. He let them help him dress without protest, his limbs feeling numb and not his own.

To be crowned king... How had he ever felt ready for it? How had he dared to place the crown on his head, with Erebor a ruin of sickly gold, and declare himself right, and just?

How could he do it again, and expect to be followed?

“Dís,” he breathed, reaching out to her, “Dís, I-- ...”

“They will follow you, Thorin,” she smiled as she took his hands, “They trust you. As do I, as does Fíli, and Kíli, and all your friends and family. Nadad, astu galdu.”

“Ma e,” Thorin breathed.

Dís crooked a little smile and leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Do you remember what adad said to us, before Azanulbizar? He told us not to try and feel ready to rule, should the line ahead fall before you. There is no ‘ready’ when it comes to kingship, there’s simply what you must do when it's your turn. It's your turn, Thorin. Whether you believe you deserve it or not, whether you're worthy or ready, it is your turn, and you must.”

Thorin closed his eyes, Dís' hands warm on his cheeks. She was right. This was what he had to do. Once kingship had felt like a gift, like the greatest honour. Now it was a burden he dreaded with every inch of himself.

“We're all behind you, laddie,” Balin smiled, warmth in his voice, “Come on, now. First we must welcome Bard and Thranduil. The elves and menfolk are being escorted into the mountain as we speak. It'll be over before you know it.”

Balin pushed a few sheets of paper into Thorin's pocket, pulling the last robe over his shoulders.

The weight of the furs and armour was crushing. As Balin and Dís stepped back he felt unsteady, swaying in his heavy boots. Thorin turned, facing himself in the mirror.

His hair was a mass of intricate braids, combed and touched with oils to keep them smooth and sleek. Beads of mithril studded with moonstones hung at the tips, tiny white gems braided into his dark locks – hidden until they caught the light, and earrings of silver and sapphire crept along the shells of his ears in delicate sweeps.

Plates of silver armour had been placed over his underclothes, supple leather straps tying them in place. He'd lost weight, as Balin had pointed out, and he felt as if he was rattling around inside a metal shell. Straps could be tightened, but they didn't have the time now to forge or reshape pieces. His boots, at least, were his own, the ones Dori had given him, though with added embellishments.

A cloak dyed dark blue had been placed over his shoulders. It was designed to sweep out behind and around him, the weights sewn into the hem causing it to ripple and swirl. Nestled in the fur were thousands of diamonds, cut and polished so they twinkled like the stars they represented – sewn on with silver threads. They'd been shaped into the night sky, more subtle than the pattern on the mantle he'd worn when declaring the Ân Tharkh open. The constellations had been mapped out on the previous cloak, but this one was a true reflection of the stars in their multitudes – down to the scale of the gems and the coloured hue to them, no thread linking them into patterns.

He and Dís had used it to teach Frerin the names of the stars, when it had hung in his grandfather's chambers.

Nausea rolled through his gut, and he could feel sweat prickling his skin under the robes and armour. Thorin flexed his hands, the edges of his silver vambraces clinking against multicoloured bracelets. Tiny, delicate chains strung with gems and crystals linked some of the bracelets to rings sitting heavy around his fingers.

“You look as if Durin himself had stepped from legend,” Dís breathed, “With the Crown of--”

“--I am not him,” replied Thorin, turning from the mirror.

He wanted, suddenly, to smash it into a million pieces. He was going to step onto that walkway, and instead of music and cheers there would be jeering. He would stumble or fall, and it would be a sign. Fíli, Kíli, Dís, Bilbo – they'd all be there, watching him and hoping for his downfall. He was going to make some mistake, cause great insult or great dishonour.

Dís caught his arms, a stern look on her face.

“No, you're not. But some believe it. They'll cry ‘Durin the Deathless’ until they're hoarse – and I would rather hear Erebor ring with _that_ than with 'Thorin the Necromanced'.”

Her words were like a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. A chill raced down his spine, but the world seemed a little clearer around him.

Thorin bowed his head, closing his eyes as Dís pressed her forehead against his.

“We're behind you, nadad.”

“Akhminruki astû,” he breathed. Then he pulled back, letting Balin lead him out of his chambers with Dís by his side, clothing clinking and clanking. Every movement draining. He nodded along as Balin began to run through the events of the day again, concentrating just on putting one foot in front of the other.

The walk to the chambers Bard and Thranduil had been shown to felt endless, yet like he'd barely taken a few steps when they approached the rooms, two dwarven guards opening the doors.

“Welcome King Thranduil, King Bard, and his kin,” Balin smiled as he strode in, Thorin and Dís following him. The elf was standing, the man and his family seated on low, long chairs – the three children turning to stare at the new arrivals with wide eyes.

“I introduce Thorin Oakenshield, and the Lady Dís.”

Thorin and Dís inclined their heads, his sister moving to sit with all the poise of a true queen. She could so easily have taken the crown in his place, and no one would have denied her the right to rule if he had died.

Thorin turned his gaze back to the guests.

Thranduil was dressed in shades of white and silver, his crown of spruce and red berries perched on his sleek hair. The robes around him seemed weightless, shifting in some barely-there breeze, as if he was a snow-drift come to life. Bard and his children, however, looked much the same as always – though their clothes were clearly of dwarven make, and without holes or patches.

Thorin clasped his hands behind himself and forced his shoulders down, trying to stand straighter and taller than he felt.

“Welcome to Erebor. I hope you are once more finding our home to your liking.”

Thranduil inclined his head, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“Indeed, it takes shape with each passing breath. But where is your advisor? It is strange to see you without Bilbo the Magnificent by your side.”

Though Thranduil's words were lightly spoken, Thorin gritted his teeth. There was a needle and sting to them, and he had to stop himself from turning his head to look for Bilbo though he knew the hobbit wasn't there.

“Bilbo is preparing for the ceremony, with the rest of my kin,” he replied, turning to Bard, “I trust the work on Dale is to your satisfaction?”

“Aye,” Bard nodded, moving to stand and inclining his head, “You've kept your word and have our thanks. Our people sleep warm in beds, and there hasn't been a death in many days.”

“The work will continue tomorrow. I've been told the farmhouses have been repaired, and the fields are being readied for planting,” said Thorin, glancing to the three silent, staring children.

“... It is good to see your children healthy,” he added. Bard looked down at them, a softness in his gaze.

“Aye. Though many weren't as lucky.”

Guilt plucked at Thorin's gut as he averted his eyes, gripping his wrists tighter.

Dís spoke into the silence.

“We have some gifts. Clothing, befitting your new status as King of Dale. For your children, as well.”

Bard frowned even as his children sat up straighter at the mention of gifts.

“We've no need for things like that. Not while Dale--”

“--Has been and is being provided for,” Dís interrupted, a smile on her face. She stood, gesturing to Balin who bowed his head, fetching two large chests from the corner of the room, “Your people look up to you. The blood of kings is in your veins, though you weren't born into ruling.”

She opened the chests, revealing the beautifully made clothing – each tailored to their individual statures.

“Wearing these will bring your people hope, and pride. You will stand alongside the Elvenking, and Durin the Deathless, and be equal. You have shown yourself a fine king. Now is the time to be an image to your people.”

“Da, _please_ ,” breathed Tilda, picking up the dress of pale blues in her size, silk ribbons twisted into flowers along the hem, “Oh _please_ , Da, can we?”

Sigrid and Bain turned to him, hope in their eyes.

“You don't have to keep them beyond today, if you don't wish to,” Dís added.

Bard heaved a sigh and nodded his head, glancing to Thranduil. The elf kept silent, watching the proceedings as Tilda let out a joyous noise, clutching the dress to herself and beaming. Dís crooked a small smile of her own.

“I'll call some attendants to help you all change.”

“Thank you,” Bard replied.

Thorin eased himself down onto one of the low chairs as Dís led Bard and his family to one of the many side rooms after a few dwarves had been fetched, Balin slipping away and closing the door behind him.

At least, Thorin thought, he wasn't the only one cajoled into clothes he didn't want to wear. Thankfully Thranduil kept quiet, his feline, freezing gaze fixed on Thorin until the bowman reappeared.

He looked, now, like a true King of old. His clothing was fitted, dark red and brown leathers tooled into intricate designs, a circlet placed on his head, and he seemed suddenly a foot taller – broader across the chest and shoulders. His son was dressed in a similar fashion, and his daughters were in beautiful, intricate dresses with delicate cloaks on their shoulders. The youngest beamed, swishing her blue skirts to make the ribbon flowers bob and swirl around her.

“You look as you should,” Thranduil nodded, “Fine clothes befitting the occasion, and your status. I suppose we can expect your own coronation, in due time.”

A dark look crossed Bard's face, and for a fleeting second Thorin saw the man was holding back a myriad of words and emotions. Three kings, clothed in armour and leather, each wearing masks. It was fake, and folly, and Mahal he longed to be back on the road with his Company, with Bilbo singing some ditty he'd made up on the walk, the smell of Bombur's stew curling through the air and the sighs of the night breeze around them.

At least then he'd had purpose beyond pageantry. He'd still had so much potential.

Bard murmured a thanks, his children exclaiming their own with much more enthusiasm. The door opened, Balin reappearing.

“It is time,” he said with a kindly smile.

Thorin's heart leapt and then plummeted, his body denser than the earth itself, and weightless. As if an invisible hand had closed around his throat and chest, his breath was robbed from him and a nauseating wave of dizziness caused his vision to flicker.

He couldn't do it.

It was all wrong, it wouldn't be right for him to go through with this – Dáin should be the one being crowned, or Fíli, or Dís, or even Kíli. Someone suited to rule, someone worthy of the title and the position, someone who hadn't-- … Who wasn't-- …

Dís' fingers on his arm startled him out of his thoughts. Before she could speak, Thorin heaved himself to his feet. He staggered, his armour clanking as the too-broad pieces seemed to grind against each other.

The room was silent save for his harsh breathing, and the weight of their eyes was crushing. He felt like he would crumple and fold, parchment turned to ash under flame.

Thorin pushed himself to stand straight, battling against the weight and buoyancy of his limbs. He squared his shoulders, striding forwards.

It was time. And this, like all things, would be over soon.

Balin nodded at him, moving to guide him through the corridors as Dís lead Thranduil and Bard in a different direction. They would join Fíli and Kíli in the royal balcony, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield among them as guests of exceptional honour.

He measured the passing time by each clunk of his boots against the stone.

The walk seemed endless, his heart racing with dreadful anticipation. Sweat slicked his skin, and as they drew up to the darkened archway at the beginning of the walkway to the throne he could hear the crowd of men, elves, and dwarves beyond the stone.

“The balconies look almost full, and we are right on time,” Balin smiled, clasping Thorin's upper arms, “I'll go now to the throne. Wait until you hear the signal before you begin the walk. Head high, laddie. Just like we practised.”

Thorin nodded, his mouth dry. Balin smiled again and took his hands back, giving Thorin a last pat before he strode out the door, walking down the long stretch to stand by the throne.

The bustle of the crowd died out, a reverent silence falling within the mountain. Thorin's breath caught in his throat and he reached out to steady himself against the walls of the small, dark alcove. The air snapped and cracked with tension, everything utterly still.

Like heartbeats deep within the stone, drums started to beat below him.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see, couldn't _think_ , the walls closing around him and the floor lurching, bucking him off to tumble down from the alcove and to shatter on the stone far, far below.

A blasting note from several trumpets had him gasping for breath, ragged and rough, brought back to himself.

The signal.

Thorin pushed back from the wall, forcing himself to stand straight. He could see Balin and the throne in front of him. All he had to do was walk down the path. His legs locked, knees like iron and jelly mixed. And then he was taking a faltering, ungainly step forwards, and then another as he stepped out into the light.

A wall of sound crashed around him – the crowd roaring and cheering, the drums and ringing brass echoing in the chamber.

As he slowly walked forwards he felt as if his body was continuing in front of him, his spirit half a step behind, or above. Like he was watching, disembodied and removed, some pale ghost following mortal flesh.

Great drums had been dragged from their storage places, hung on massive steel chains around the walkway. Propped up by supports built into the walls and with their drummers standing alongside on special platforms, the stone beneath his feet throbbed along with the beat. Wielding sticks almost as large as themselves – as many as six dwarves to a drum – five separate patterns wove together, combining to mean 'King'.

Dwarves dressed in replications of his past armours and dressed as his enemies staged battles on massive, steel plates around the walkway – suspended and held up like the drums. As they moved the sound of their iron-capped boots and weapons against the steel rang out, perfectly in time to the beat. Five plates, five battles. He could see his battle with Azog in Azanulbizar, a young dwarf playing him and clutching a wooden shield as the one dressed as his enemy swung a mace. Him and the Goblin King, him and Azog again – amid burning torches to represent the flaming trees. Three dwarves dressed as Smaug and him within the mountain, and then-- …

Him and Azog, on the ice. A replica of Orcrist in his actor's hands, a special grit on the rims of all weapons and armour making sparks twist into the air with each perfectly timed hit.

Thorin's step faltered. Ice burned his skin, pain flooding him, and he could taste blood and dirt as the life bled out of him. He was alone on the water, afraid and dying. Exhausted beyond measure.

His eyes met Balin's. A look of fear crossed the older dwarf's face and Thorin took half a step backwards, the chasm around him sweeping up to the edges of the walkway. His head spun.

This was a trick. A coup. He was going to meet his end here, in front of everyone. A public execution – and Mahal, he deserved it. Thorin gasped for breath, looking up to the royal balcony.

Bilbo.

The hobbit was gripping the railing, eyes wide and mouth moving in silent words. Thorin blinked, staring at his lips.

_Move_

_Thorin, move!_

He exhaled raggedly, turning his gaze back towards Balin and taking another step forwards. He could see relief shining in the elderly dwarf's eyes, and it took all his strength not to reach out for his old friend.

As he walked up to the few steps leading to the throne, the music and drumming came to an end, perfectly timed so a triumphant note rang out as he stopped.

Silence rushed to the fill the void of sound, his heart slamming against his ribs.

Balin shot a wink to Thorin before raising his voice to address the crowds.

“Standing here in these hallowed halls, I think to myself, now, here is one I will follow. Here is one... I call King.”

The chamber shook as the dwarves roared, clapping and stamping. Balin raised his hands to call for silence, speaking again when he could be heard.

“Returned to us by Mahal, as it has been prophesied, Durin the Deathless stands before us. Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain!”

Again, a cacophony burst around him.

Thorin felt like he couldn't breathe, like his stomach would empty at any given moment. Balin turned from him, gesturing to a balcony.

With a clunk the lights were turned off, and the room plunged into darkness and silence. Then, from a contraption controlled independently and manoeuvred by chains, a beam of pure white light shone down upon him. He closed his eyes, pulling in a few deep, slow breaths as he let his head drop.

Just as he and Balin had practised.

A low hum started from the balcony, the sound of thousands of voices all but sighing out the same, thrumming note. Thorin turned to the left, breath catching. One of the steel plates had been silently lifted, now acting as a massive mirror – the edges fringed to look like the banks of the Kheled-zâram.

He seemed as if he was floating in nothingness, suspended by the steady hum of his kin's voices. Lit by a single moonbeam, alone in the vast dark. He took a deep breath, and began to sing.

“Makhabbul gagin, ankidi kalm,  
Zû mi mahdu kanâgê.  
Akhâl ra gayad zâshfatumuni duzun,  
Binubrush ra bina'lâj,  
Azhâr zâmahi zaizun.”

As the words flowed from his lips, high in the chamber behind him small, bright lights turned on one by one until a crown of starlight seemed to hang above his head. Bulbs strung on a net of wires twinkled into being, the night sky captured beneath the mountain, reflected and endless. It was enough to take his breath away, to make his voice falter for a second.

He wanted to reach out, to touch the surface of the mirror – so close, and yet so far. A chasm between it and him. The dwarf looking back at him didn't seem like his own reflection. Its skin seemed grey, the glimmer of armour and the gems sewn into its cloak making it seem like a dressed statue or doll, wrapped in the night sky. Like a puppet of Durin I, but empty.

Hollow.

The last note rushed from him in a shaky exhale, Thorin's fingers trembling by his side. He turned, Balin's warm smile a beacon in the dark, and slowly sank down onto one knee.

“So begins the reign of Thorin II, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. King,” Balin declared, slowly placing the crown upon Thorin's head, “Under the Mountain. Long may he reign. Long live the king!”

The mountain trembled with the roar of the crowd, and he felt crushed under the weight of their cheering. Prickling pain from the unfamiliar edges of the new crown dug into his scalp, its image that of Erebor and the ravens, forged from the last of the mithril ingots in Erebor's stores.

One by one the switches were pulled so the chamber was once more filled with warm light, and Thorin pushed himself up onto his feet.

Just liked they'd practised.

He lifted his arm, turning in a slow circle to face the many balconies, the stone throbbing and shaking at the cacophony of triumphant brass, drums, and cheers – the call of 'Durin the Deathless' echoing out above all others.

Dread flooded him, and as Thorin dropped his arm and turned his gaze to look up to the Royal balcony, to the faces of Bilbo, his family, and his Company, he felt numb. Their smiling faces and open, cheering mouths brought him no comfort.

They'd made a mistake. They'd all made a terrible mistake.

 

 

 

*

 _T.A 2941_  
_December 17th_

 

 

 

“Welcome to Imladris, the Last Homely House East of the Sea, and our humble home,” Elladan grinned, sweeping his arm out in a wide arc to encompass the entirety of Rivendell, nestled into the cliffs.

Legolas took a slow, deep breath through his nose and tried not to look too impressed. Bird song trilled around them, the air thick and sweet with water and earth and green, growing things. The buildings shimmered silver, rose, and gold in the morning light. There was a sense of a current running under them – strong, and full of life.

He was struck by the urge to stand up in his stirrups and sing, suddenly moved as sunbeams caressed the sweeping roofs and delicate arches. Legolas swallowed against the surge of emotion, breathing out slowly through his nose.

“It's beautiful,” he softly said.

Elrohir crooked a small smile and urged his pony onwards, guiding them down the little, narrow paths into the heart of the valley. As they rode the twins pointed out the various buildings and their usages, the defensive posts and the secret pathways wide enough for trade-carts to rumble through – as well as several species of flora native only to Imladris.

The ride into Rivendell was peaceful, the twins falling quiet as they reached their home – a welcome relief. Legolas had often travelled in groups around Mirkwood, but always in stealth or quiet. Sometimes there would be singing, and after victories there would be bonfires and dancing. But Elladan and Elrohir were like two twittering birds, chirping and chattering incessantly until Legolas' ears rang with it. They sang and joked and laughed and recited until he'd been sure there wasn't a single word in Sindarin or Westron left, and yet still they spoke.

He'd longed for the peace of Mirkwood and his father's halls, for the quiet of the great forests.

Legolas followed the twins in dismounting from his horse and allowing her to be taken to the stables along with the others, inclining his head as he was welcomed by the elves into the main courtyard; rich with trees and bushes.

One stepped forwards, placing their hand on their chest and bowing shortly.

“Welcome to Imladris. Word has reached me of your expected arrival, Lord Legolas of the Woodland realm, and merrily I receive you in my master's absence. I am Lindir, steward of the House of Elrond.”

“Your hospitality is gladly met,” Legolas replied, “Long have I wished to view the splendour of Imladris.”

“Spoken like a true Prince,” laughed Elladan, “But Legolas is here with other purpose. He wishes to meet someone here, on his father's advice.”

Lindir tilted their head, looking curiously between the three elves.

“And who might that be?”

“The young ranger from the North,” Elrohir smiled.

Lindir quirked an eyebrow and glanced at all three of them before inclining their head. Legolas followed eagerly as Lindir turned on their heel, and began to lead the group along little paths and through light, airy chambers.

“He is hardly a ranger, but I know of whom you speak. I shall seem him called for, if he can be found.”

The twins exchanged mirthful looks as Lindir left, gesturing for Legolas to sit on a low bench in the little garden area, taking their own seats.

“Strider is often hard to locate, even for elvish eyes and ears,” explained Elladan, offering Legolas a glass of crisp water from a pitcher. He accepted it with a nod of his head. Rangers were curious folk, cold and distant, from what he'd heard. Shells of great men moving in the shadows of the land.

Lindir returned, a tray in their hands.

“He will be here shortly. Allow me to serve you some food, to replenish your strength after the journey.”

“Hannon le, Lindir,” Elrohir nodded, leaning back in his chair and starting to tell the elf of him and his brother's journey to Erebor. One hour turned into two, but even with food and wine Legolas began to grow restless. While he didn't believe the twins would lead him all the way to Rivendell for their own amusement, clearly something was at work here.

At that moment one of the bushes shuddered and from the undergrowth sprang a small figure, robes torn and a wooden sword clutched in both hands.

“Halt, stranger! You trespass on elven lands!” he cried, mud on his face and twigs in his hair, his eyes alight with mischief and mirth.

“Estel!” hissed Lindir, composure slipping as they span to face the young boy, gently gripping his shoulder, “You stand before the Prince of Mirkwood, and long after you were first called for! Where have you been?”

The boy scowled, his game clearly ruined as he glared up at Legolas. Estel sniffed, crossing his arms.

“I was busy. He doesn't look much like a prince,” he muttered.

“Lord Legolas,” Elladan grinned, delight barely contained by his features, “I introduce you to Strider, whom we here call Estel.”

Legolas blinked, looking between the two twins and the small human boy. This had to be some sort of jest – the twins were fond enough of them, as he'd learned on the road, but to introduce this child to him after such a journey...

“Hey...!” the boy cried, pointing his sword at Elladan, “Only naneth can call me Strider, ‘cause I run so fast!!”

“Estel,” Lindir gritted out, voice frayed, “Please. Legolas is an honoured guest – whom you have kept waiting many an hour. Greet him as such.”

Estel scowled, giving Legolas another stern look before he sighed heavily and dropped into a deep bow.

“Mae l'ovannen, hir nín Legolas. Le nathlam hí na Imladris.” he said quickly, straightening up immediately.

Legolas opened his mouth, mind blank.

“Le ab-dollen. You look terrible.”

A second of silence twisted around them before the twins and Estel burst into loud laughter. A touch of pink coloured Legolas' cheeks, embarrassment twisting in his chest.

It had been a long journey, and he had been surprised by the reveal of the child. Besides, Legolas thought to himself as he finished his glass of wine in two large gulps, he wasn't renowned for his diplomacy.

Estel beamed at him.

“I think we can be friends,” he proclaimed, little voice full of delight and sincerity.

Legolas wasn't entirely sure it was a compliment.

 

 

*

  
_T.A 2941_  
_December 30th_

 

 

“If irak'adad is insisting on Bilbo's presence at the funeral the day after tomorrow, I don't see why he can't make an exception for Tauriel, too. She was there for the coronation!” Kíli exclaimed, waving his spoon around with all the energy of someone who hadn't been arguing since dinner had been handed out.

He frowned as Fíli sighed, rubbing his hand over his brow.

They were sitting at the table in his brother's rooms, but both still wore their royal clothes and circlets from the day's duties, and Kíli hadn't wanted to eat alone. It was the first time in their lives they hadn't shared chambers, and on nights when Tauriel couldn't slip into his room to sleep – or whatever elves did, because she was always awake when he nodded off and when he woke – he felt the loneliness like an ache in his bones.

“You know why she can't, Kee, it's _different_. The coronation was open to all, the funeral is just for dwarves. And for Bilbo, who is special, and an honorary dwarf.”

Kíli bit back his retort. Pointing out to Fíli how special Tauriel was probably wasn't the best idea. He took a bite of his stew, and changed tactic.

“But you're still not fully recovered, and it's going to be a long day. We've got to do the first and last walk with Thorin, and then we've got to stand up in that balcony while every other dwarf makes their rounds of the fallen! Not to mention we've got to help Thorin lead the songs and present the remunerations to the families _and_ pay respects to the monument for the lost. You'll be tired – what if you need healing, and no one's to hand?”

Fíli raised an eyebrow, taking a gulp of his ale.

“Brother, I _am_ healed. It's been two months since the operation, and I walk quicker and stronger every day. There's no wound to reopen, it's a scar now – like your own. Besides, if something does happen, Óin'll be there.”

Kíli scowled and stirred his spoon through the thick stew.

“Óin's not as good as Tauriel,” he grumbled.

She should be there. He wanted to show her – wanted to make her understand the way life woke and slept and woke again. She'd understand, then, the mountains.

For a few moments there was silence save for the crackle of logs in the fireplace and the clack of Fíli's spoon against his bowl. Finally Kíli looked up, putting on his best pleading face.

“Will you at least ask uncle to reconsider?”

“Kee, if I were in his position, I would say the same thing! This isn't a ceremony for elves – especially not when that scuffle between Thranduil's army and Dáin's may well have put some of our fallen there. How would our people would react? You're not thinking,” Fíli snapped, frustration on his face as he dropped his spoon into the bowl. “Don't you understand? Thorin is breaking rules – ancient, important rules – by bringing Bilbo into the ceremony. There will be Khuzdul, and secret rites. Things no one save for a dwarf is meant to see and hear.”

“I know--.” Kíli protested, but his brother interrupted.

“-- No, you don't. It's not a game, Kee, Thorin's kingship hangs by a thread. He barely leaves his rooms save for when he absolutely must, and he hides himself under furs and armour. Bilbo and Balin cannot agree whether he sleeps too much now or not at all, and I haven't seen him smile or heard him laugh in an age.”

Guilt rose up in Kíli like a flood. His brother's face was pained as he spoke, worry creasing the skin around his eyes and brow.

“Bera tells us what's being said; you know there are questions being asked. Rumours are spreading – rumours Bera suspects are coming from the elves, through the menfolk, and then into our Halls. How is Thorin alive again, and by what magic or deed? If he even is truly alive,” Fíli added, his tone dark.

Kíli shook his head, clutching his spoon.

“Don't. Don't say that,” he breathed.

“They have these questions in their minds, Kee, and Thorin's appearance and mood aren't soothing them. We know it's him. We know in our hearts that he's been brought back to us by good powers, whatever they might be, but others aren't so quick to believe. The funeral will be difficult for him. It'll be difficult for us all, and those who suspect something darker in him will be looking for proof of it. Don't lay any more burdens or requests on his head, brother. He's said no. Follow his orders, lest others begin to test his rule.”

Kíli swallowed hard, tears burning his eyes. His brother was right. Of course he was right, he was always right. But it still stung, and he hadn't considered what the weight of the request might feel like to Thorin.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, dropping his spoon into his bowl, all appetite gone.

Fíli's sigh echoed out around the room, and when his brother spoke again it was softer.

“I know it's disappointing, brother. I know about the bond you have with her. I know all of it.”

Kíli's head snapped up at that, heart leaping in his chest.

“You know?” he asked, mouth moving before his brain as panic crashed through him, “How? Did Bilbo tell you? We're going to tell everyone soon, we just need--...”

He trailed off. Fíli had frozen, eyes wide and mouth a little open.

Kíli laughed nervously.

“... Kíli...” his brother slowly said, putting his hands flat on the table, “I was talking about your friendship with the elf.”

“Oh. Oh! Yes. We were going to tell everyone how we’re such excellent friends, and--.”

“--Stop, stop. You're the worst liar Mahal ever forged. Stop.”

Kíli fell silent. His heart was slamming against his ribs, sweat beading on his palms as he realised what he'd just done. Fíli was still staring at him, an open look of disbelief on his face. He'd forced his own hand, and now he had to tell his brother the very thing he'd been trying to hide.

With a gulp of his ale for courage, Kíli spoke again.

“I love her. And she loves me. We're in love, and somehow, we're going to make it work. It's a secret but Bilbo knows, and now you. Tauriel umralê.”

At that, Fíli finally snapped his mouth shut, exhaling a long, slow breath. He dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at his brow. Then he slowly looked back up, resting his chin on his knuckles.

“She still can't come to the ceremony,” he said, utterly sincerely.

Kíli blinked. Slowly a grin started to spread over his face; and as his brother's expression mirrored his own, he started laughing – Fíli chuckling along. He reached over, taking his brother's hand and squeezing it, tension he wasn't aware he'd been harbouring slipping from his shoulders. He grinned, the warm smile Fíli gave back sending relief trickling through his veins.

Fíli accepted them, and he hadn't lost his brother's love. He could accept not having Tauriel by his side for this ceremony, and he'd make sure by the time there was another, she was recognised as the Prince's Consort.

 

 

 

*

 _T.A 2941  
_ _December 31st_

 

 

The birds fell silent. Though the sunlight was brash, the air had turned cold and biting. It was as if nature was holding its breath, or turning its head to look away from the figure that didn’t belong in its arms.

Each step left in its wake an impression, the soft ground shying away from the bare skin of two feet. The indents filled with oozing muck, bleeding oily mud like blood between the green grass. Shimmering streaks of iridescent colour, inverted and perverse, slicked the creature's skin. Though it was tall, its shoulders were hunched, and it moved in a slow, lurching fashion. Locks of ashy golden hair were twined around twigs and leaves, crusted with filth and tarnished beyond recognition.

The breeze didn't seem to stir the creature's cloak, dark greens and blues rippling across the material, with flecks of white like sea foam splashed across the cloth. Instead, the cloak undulated as if nameless, forgotten creatures belched from deep oceans writhed beneath the dank threads.

The figure moved with purpose, the peaks of the Misty Mountains rising ahead.

 

 

 

*

 _T.A 2942  
_ _January 1st_

 

 

 

Thorin let the last note from his harp fade out into the air. He rested his fingers against the sound box, and breathed out a sigh. The birthday gift from Dwalin was beautiful and thoughtful, but it lacked the craftsmanship of a personal instrument. It sounded nothing more than pleasant, lacking the depth and richness only a personally crafted and inscribed instrument could reach.

He set it aside and rose to his feet.

Balin had let him choose his own attire for the funeral, for which Thorin had been grateful. After careful consideration of his wardrobe, and with some advice from Balin, he’d settled on light greys, and a simple opal circlet with seven diamonds set into it . His cloak was a deeper grey, fading to white at the top and diving into greens at the base. Leather armour sat on top of his clothing, a warm, ashy colour, and soft to the touch.

Though he still felt stifled, it wasn't as bad as his usual outfits.

He tipped his head back and took a slow, deep breath. Óin had kindly sat him down and given him some simple exercises, explaining his belief that Thorin was suffering from some very normal ajbâlazgh, and with a little bit of care, he'd be as right as rock again in no time.

Mahal, how he hoped it was true. He felt heavy, like his bones were made of granite, and he was exhausted. Either sleeping barely an hour or two, or sleeping for hours longer than he should, he woke each morning with a pit of dread in his belly. Each new day felt like an insurmountable obstacle, like he was but a pebble in his first days of military training. He ached, and where there had been fire in his breast there was now ash, and everything he touched was soiled by it.

“Thorin?”

Bilbo's gentle voice broke him out of his thoughts. He looked over and nodded his head, taking in the hobbit's attire. Simple, dark greys and blacks, and a solemn look on his face.

“I am ready,” he replied, clasping his hands behind him and striding over to Bilbo. “It is time?”

“Yes. Are you alright?”

He inclined his head, moving to stride past Bilbo – but the hobbit's hand on his arm stopped him.

“Thorin. I'm worried about you. You haven't eaten today, have you? And you look as if you haven't slept in weeks. You look miserable.”

Something loose rattled in Thorin's chest. He made to pull away, but Bilbo's grip tightened and the hobbit moved around to plant himself in front of Thorin, a determined look on his face.

“Thorin. _Please_. Talk to me.”

“There's nothing to talk about. Today is a day of grief and mourning. I carry the weight of the mountain's pain with me.”

Bilbo sighed heavily, his eyes fluttering closed for a second and his fingers tightening on Thorin's forearms. He could see the little lines and crinkles in Bilbo's skin, making him look older under the light from the lukhûdu'arisî.

“You don't have to carry all of it all the time,” he finally said, his eyes opening and staring into his. “You aren't the mountain. You're Thorin.”

“Am I?” he breathed before his control kicked in. He clamped his jaw shut and drew back, gently shaking Bilbo's hands from his arms and drawing himself up tall, internally cursing himself for speaking. Somehow Bilbo always managed to needle something out of him.

Thorin turned his head away from Bilbo's soft eyes.

“Come. It is time, as you said, and there are many parts to this ceremony.”

Bilbo's sigh was audible, but the hobbit fell into step beside him, following as Thorin led him out of his chambers and through the main corridors, down towards where the mass funeral was to be held. Balin was waiting for them by the doors that lead out to the King's Way, above the Ceremonial Halls, along with Dís, Fíli, and Kíli. They were all dressed in similar attire, with solemn looks on their faces.

He inclined his head.

“Urd farkhul alanurt.”

“Mamannâlân'atôn thanud'urd nussâ,” Dís replied, putting her hands on Thorin's cheeks and gently knocking their foreheads together. Fíli and Kíli followed suit, murmuring the greeting. He could feel Bilbo's silent presence beside him, somehow comforting despite the dread weight in his belly.

“It is time,” Balin said softly, squeezing Thorin's arm and moving back.

Thorin stepped up to the doors, Dís standing behind him, her sons on either side. He caught a glimpse of Bilbo shuffling to stand awkwardly behind them and turned a little.

“No. Come stand with me,” he said.

“Thorin, that's-- ...” Balin blustered. “That's highly unconventional.”

“More so to walk behind the princes. Bilbo, come. The doors are about the open,” he said, a little more firmly.

The hobbit hesitated before he nodded his head and quickly stepped up beside Thorin, standing to his right.

“On my left,” Thorin murmured. “Unless you wish to declare yourself King.”

“Oh,” Bilbo breathed, hurriedly shifting to stand on Thorin's left, clasping his hands behind his back and puffing his chest out a little.

Fíli coughed behind them, and Kíli's voice was barely more than a whisper, a definite grin in his tone.

“You do make a better consort than a king.”

“Kíli,” Dís murmured sternly.

Bilbo choked out a short: “What?” at the same time, but before anyone else could speak there was a ringing note from the trumpets, and the heavy doors swung open as if they were weightless.

Thorin could just hear the short, shocked breath Bilbo sucked in before it was lost under another cry from the brass.

Long, burning candles stood at regular intervals down the long steps towards the floor of the Ceremonial Halls, and the lukhûdu'arisî had been muted. The middle of the room had been raised, lines of stone tables placed on the surface and lit by the warm light.

Upon each of the stone tables, their limbs arranged into natural sleeping positions, laid a dwarf on a cloth of dark green. Their skin and hair was painted grey, but the highest points were gilded with white, and the grey faded into green. Each was an individual mountain range, capped with snow and grounded by grass and forests.

Tiny models of trees and boulders sat on their skin, painted rivers trickled down their arms and sides, and around them were tiny structures – homes of men, elves, and dwarves. The scale was true to life, and it was hard to see the still body of the dwarf beneath the depicted stone.

A sea of grey rippled around the raised platform. The dwarves of Erebor, the Blue Mountains, and the Iron Hills gathered and mixed as one, each in greys and gentle greens.

The final note from the trumpets and horns faded, replaced by a low hum from each dwarf, gentle and warm in the twilight.

Thorin stepped forwards.

He kept his eyes fixed on the tables, and what was on them. Mamannâlân. He would have been laid out in the same way – he _should_ have been laid out like this. He would have been in the middle, his platform higher, and he would have been laid out to look like Erebor itself. Perhaps sitting, his skin painted in the colours of the stone, and the surrounding fields. It would have been right, somehow.

Natural.

Unlike now.

Thorin kept his feet moving, descending the steps with all the stately grace he possessed, his feet falling in time with those of his kin behind him. Bilbo, to his left, was silent. The low hum from the dwarves around him grew warmer as his boots stepped off the final step and onto the level floor. He made his way towards the raised platform and tables, the crowd parting around them.

With a slow exhale he too began to hum the same note, pausing at the small flight of stairs leading up to the platform. He bowed his head, seeing Bilbo quickly follow his lead. He slowly dropped onto one knee, hearing his kin behind him follow suite.

The hum changed, voices splitting off into several different notes, but all twining together in harmony. After all, there were only a select number of notes to choose from, each one signifying a different part of grieving.

Thorin kept his head bowed, closing his eyes for a moment before he rose to his feet and climbed the steps, walking slowly between the tables and clasping his hands behind his back.

It was peaceful. Calm and serene. The fallen had returned to stone, and their bodies would be sealed into small carven hollows deep within the mountain. There they would sleep.

“No dwarf is ever truly gone,” he said softly, just loudly enough for Bilbo hear. The hobbit looked up, a startled shadow in his eyes. “Our spirits go to the Halls of Mahal, and there we rest with our kin. When this world comes to its end, Mahal will wake us and we will help in the rebuilding.”

“Oh,” Bilbo whispered. “That's-- … I don't think hobbits have anything nearly as grand. I didn't realise until we got closer that these are-- … That they're the, ah... Well. Very, hmn. Convincing. The colours, and the, ah...”

The hobbit trailed off, a pinched look to his face.

“It is to remind us that we came from the stone and the mountains, and that we will return to it in the end. We do not sail into the West, nor do we burn or bury our kin, unless there is no other choice. Our bodies are borrowed from Mahal's forge, and when our time in them is done, we return them.”

Bilbo nodded, crossing his arms in front of him and clutching at his own elbows, gaze skittering off the bodies.

“Would they-- … I mean, if you hadn't woken back up, would you...?”

“Yes,” Thorin said softly. “In the centre. Fíli would have lead the procession, if he were able, or Kíli if he was not.”

The hobbit nodded his head before he exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment.

“I'm glad you woke up, Thorin. I'm really very, very glad you woke up.”

Thorin reached out, letting his fingers rest against Bilbo's shoulder for a brief second even as he kept silent. At first he had been glad to have woken up. He'd been confused, disorientated, but ultimately relieved. Now he wasn't so sure his life was a gift.

What price was he to pay for his life? What lay in wait? How much more death and war would be bring to his people? All those that laid dead here had died for him, for his madness and for his gold. Perhaps he should have followed the natural order of sleep and wakefulness under Mahal's hands.

He should have died with them, and repented for his crimes with his life.

“Uncle?” Fíli breathed.

He'd slowed to a halt in the middle of the platform, and as he blinked himself out of his thoughts, he realised Bilbo's hand was now on his arm and Fíli was standing to his right a half-step behind. Thorin swallowed, throat and chest viciously tight.

“Urd farkhul alanurt,” he managed to choke out. “Urd farkhul alanurt.”

Fíli nodded, stepping back. Thorin sucked in a shaky breath and kept his feet moving, walking between the platforms and then back down the steps. He led Bilbo and his kin up onto a balcony, and took his stance against the railing. His family and the hobbit stood alongside him, all in silence.

Mahal, he felt weary. As if the sleeping were calling to him. As if he should be among them. Bilbo's arm brushed against his, and he let out a slow breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. The mountain was heavy, and those laid in its arms sat glorious now in the Halls of Mahal.

He was not among them, and he had miles to go before he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Someone reported my fics on Ao3 - This is why!](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com/post/148307664796/so-someone-reported-me-on-ao3)
> 
> If you or anyone you know shows symptoms of what's been detailed in this chapter, you can find a [good list of hotlines here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/post/21961172409/accepting-help-is-brave-hotlinescrisis-lines), as well as [a good list of chatrooms here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/chatrooms). 
> 
> You can find [me](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com), and [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com) all on tumblr! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sending them a message, too! 
> 
> And I'd like to give [Hattie](http://hattedhedgehog.tumblr.com/) a shout-out, for coming up with the term 'pebble' for young dwarves!
> 
> [Youtube video of 'Ibinê Mim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4).  
> [Azhâr's soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari).
> 
> List of Khuzdul and Sindarin used in order of appearance:  
> Nadad, astu galdu - Brother, you are worthy  
> Ma e - I am not  
> Adad - Father  
> Ân Tharkh - River Road  
> Akhminruki astû - Thank you wholeheartedly  
> Kheled-zâram - Mirrormere  
> Makhabbul gagin, ankidi kalm, Zû mi mahdu kanâgê, Akhâl ra gayad zâshfatumuni duzun, Binubrush ra bina'lâj, Azhâr zâmahi zaizun - Forged again, I wear the crown, Now with the blessing of my people. Peace and joy I will bring to you, Without torment and without shame, A home I will create with you.  
> Hannon le - Thank you  
> Naneth - Mummy  
> Mae l'ovannen, hir nín Legolas. Le nathlam hí na Imladris - Greetings, my lord Legolas. Welcome to Imladris  
> Le ab-dollen - You're late  
> Irak'adad - Uncle  
> Tauriel umralê - Tauriel is my One  
> Ajbâlazgh - War-visions  
> Lukhûdu'arisî - Light bulb  
> Urd farkhul alanurt - The mountain is heavy today  
> Mamannâlân'atôn thanud'urd nussâ - Those who are sleeping are in its arms  
> Mamannâlân - Those who are sleeping


	11. Raklaban

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, thank you all again for the AMAZING support you've shown me! Azhâr is over a year old, now. It's still a never-ending pleasure to write! I really don't have words for how grateful I am you're enjoying the story so far. It really encourages and inspires me to keep writing, even in the darkest times. Thank you again!
> 
> This is such an exciting chapter because you finally get to know what the Arkenstone is!!! Also, one of the tags coming into play ;)
> 
> The art in this chapter is by the amazing Ruto!
> 
> Please make sure to go back a few chapters to check out the amazing art by [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), [Pop](http://www.poplitealqueen.tumblr.com) and [Quel](http://www.tosquinha.tumblr.com)!
> 
> And to my two betas who put in a simply unbelievable amount of work, [Tea](http://mcmanatea.tumblr.com) and [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), I really couldn't do any of this without your help. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
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> [Please come say hi to me on Tumblr!](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)
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> I'd also like to add some potential trigger warnings on this chapter, to do with anxiety, depression, and panic attacks. Please be aware symptoms of these are explored in the following chapter.

 

 

_T.A 2942_

_January 10th_

 

 

 

 

Gimli took a deep breath, putting his hands on his hips. Then he crossed them in front of him before finally settling on clasping his fingers together behind his back as he strode alongside his mother, Amli, the two of them near the front of the procession.

Erebor soared above them, grand in the early afternoon sun, capped with snow. Ravens and birds lazily circled its peaks, and though the winter air was cold, the sun-kissed mountain seemed warm.

Their journey over the Misty Mountains had been slow, and many times they'd had to dig the carts out of the snow. Winter storms had crashed over them, frozen winds hurling fistfuls of ice, and blizzards strong enough to stop their progress. Though some passes through the mountains had remained safe for dwarven folk to use, a great many had been overrun with goblins, and were too dangerous to bring the caravan through. Not with such young pebbles in their midst.

Even so, there had been a few skirmishes along the way. No lives had been lost, no real injuries received – save for those dealt out to the mangy packs of goblins, and Gimli was sorely disappointed to have missed his chance at battle and glory. After all, his adad had fought not only goblins, but trolls and orcs and wargs and giant spiders and even a dragon! Why couldn't he, at thirty four, take on a few packs of hungry, destitute goblins?

It was unfair. He had an axe – two, in fact! They should've been used for more than just chopping down the occasional tree for the fires.

Gimli exhaled slowly, trying to calm the beating of his heart.

Adad. Though it had only been a year since he'd last seen him, it felt like an eternity. Each letter home had been a gift from Mahal, each one another day of knowing his adad was alive.

The first caravan drew to a stop outside the gates, a silence falling over the gathered dwarves. Gimli glanced over to his mother, reaching out suddenly to take her arm. She smiled down at him, the silver beads in her beard shimmering in the sunlight. He tried to smile back, but his throat and chest were suddenly tight.

He'd be there. He had to be.

The blare of horns startled him, his head whipping around to look up at the gates. Behind the parapet stood Fíli, his golden hair aglow around his head. There was a smile on his face, and Gimli's heart lifted to see his cousin looking so merry.

“Azsâlul'abad maidmî! Azhâr maidmî.”

Gimli felt some of the tension seep from him. A triumphant cheer from the dwarves gathered in front of the gates went up, echoed by those standing on the ramparts, and the cawing ravens above. He'd heard about Prince Fíli's illness, his wound, but to see him standing there, proud and hale, was enough to chase the shadows from his mind, and the doubts from his heart.

Fíli gestured, and with a creak of cogs and heavy stone, the gates began to swing open.

But where was Thorin? He was king, wasn't he? Why was Fíli greeting them, and not the king? Perhaps he was busy with other matters, though he'd been expecting to be welcomed home by the king, to be recognised for their journey – the first caravan from the Blue Mountains.

Was that not worthy of a welcome from the king?

The caravan lurched back into movement, many of the dwarves breaking into song as they entered the cool, welcoming embrace of stone. He'd travelled so long above ground, over hills and under trees. To feel solid rock cover him, as a warm blanket on a cold evening, was like the relief of a fever breaking.

He blinked in the low light, gasping sharply as he saw the lukhûdu'arisî. They were beautiful, hanging like stars in the caverns, and his heart was filled with a deep, sudden love for Erebor, and all it contained. He felt like he belonged there, like he'd been there a thousand times before.

“Gimli!”

He all but jumped out of his boots at the cry of his name, rushing forwards without a thought.

“Adad! Adad!”

Tears stung the corners of his eyes, his heart clenching as he ran toward his father. He was alive. Alive and beaming with tears of his own running into his beard. Gimli slammed into him, clinging to his frame with every ounce of strength he had. He couldn't stop his shuddering sob if he cared to try, but there was no shame in rejoicing in seeing his father again, no shame in tears of relief and delight.

“Adad,” he breathed, tightening his arms around his father's waist and clamping his eyes shut.

“Thanbê mim,” Glóin choked out, pressing kisses over Gimli's head and knocking their brows together. “Oh, how I have missed you, lad! How I have missed you! How you've grown! Let me look at you, let me look at you,” he laughed.

Gimli stepped back, clasping his father's forearms and beaming up at him, still snuffling a little.

“I've been training every day, adad. I'm not a pebble any longer. I can work the biggest hammers in the forge, now!” he added, puffing out his chest a little.

Glóin laughed, clapping Gimli's shoulders.

“Well! Of course you can. You're the strongest lad I know – but you'll always be a pebble in my eyes, thanbê mim, as I was in the eyes of my father. Ah! There she is! Umralê!.”

Gimli turned his head, grinning as his mother wrapped her arms around the both of them, squeezing so hard they were both lifted off their feet by the strength in her embrace. He wheezed, trapped between them, but he never wanted them to let go.

At the sound of their kiss, however, he began to wriggle.

“Amad...! Adad...!” he groaned, freeing himself from their embrace and crossing his arms as they laughed, embracing again. He could see a similar joyful reunion between Halla and Bombur happening just to his right, the both of them covered in joyful pebbles, Bofur and Bifur with their arms full of happy dwarves.

“You had your turn, my lad,” Amli grinned. “I've missed him just as much.”

Glóin laughed again, keeping an arm around Amli's waist as he reached out to rest his hand on Gimli's head, beaming down at him.

“Come on, lad. There's a lot to see.”

Gimli nodded, drawing himself up taller and linking his arm with his father's, a wide smile on his face.

He was walking side by side with a legend, with one of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, one of those who had travelled with the king.

One day he'd follow in his father's footsteps and go on an adventure so grand, his deeds would never be forgotten. But, he thought to himself as he looked up at the joyful faces of his parents, until then, he could walk alongside his father, and feel proud to be his son.

 

 

 

*

 

_T.A 2942_

_January 18th_

 

 

 

 

Ori rubbed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply.

“Coffee?” Dwalin offered, holding out the abantumun'arsur and sloshing the liquid inside.

“I'll never sleep,” Ori sighed. He reached for it nevertheless, pouring another mug of the dark liquid and adding a dollop of honey, stirring it vigorously.

They were sitting in the dark of the library, a few lamps on the stone table in front of them. Whether it was due to the rocks and rubble blocking the entrance or the will of Mahal, the inside of the library had suffered very little damage. The books hadn't mouldered or rotted, the shelves all stood, and the stone had been declared secure. The only damage was to the wires and batteries – the latter having corroded over the years - and had stopped the lights working. The ventilation systems were also out of order for the time being, but with the entrance opened, there was enough airflow in the room to make it breathable, if a little musty.

To Ori, it smelt like home. Old parchments, vellum bindings, coffee, and smoke from oil lamps and candles, all surrounded by the musty weight of dusk. The library was quiet, calm, and serene. When the hustle and bustle of Erebor became too much, and he'd finished his work, he came here.

Dwalin often came with him, especially late at night, still too keyed up from a day of manual labour to sleep.

Ori took another sip of his drink, jotting down a few last words on the parchment in front of him before setting the page aside. He'd taken it upon himself to make a comprehensive catalogue of the works in the library, noting all the important details of the book, and how many copies there were. When that was done, he'd write a new volume of them in alphabetical order. Or, well. Several volumes. Each book would have its own page, so new additions could be added between already recorded volumes.

“There,” Dwalin said triumphantly, putting down a delicate hammer used for fine work.

“Oh! Yes. That's exactly what I had in mind,” Ori nodded, reaching over to pick up what Dwalin had been working on. It was like an empty book, thin slats of wood covered in leather to make a front and back, and a wide, wide spine. On the spine sat a thin iron rectangle, two tall hoops of metal protruding out from it, with a little contraption on the side to snap them open and closed.

Ori took a sheet of parchment, carefully using a pair of scissors to cut two little holes along the edge. He then took a small paint brush, dabbing some tree sap around the cut holes and waving the parchment to help it dry. When he could touch it without the sap lifting off onto his fingers, he positioned the holes over the open loops, slid it down to the bottom, and snapped them closed.

“A fine invention,” Dwalin said, crossing his arms and nodding his head, a pleased smile touching the corners of his lips. “Will you submit your design for your family's use?”

“No,” replied Ori. He shook the book, making sure the single sheet of parchment didn't flutter out before he put it down. “No, I'll release the plans to the public. I've no need for the gold, and besides, I think it could be useful for all sorts of information keeping.”

Dwalin nodded his head, picking up the book and turning the single page.

“Aye. Useful indeed. I’ll make a couple more for Balin and Glóin. Maybe one for Thorin, too. Store all those proposal letters he’s been getting. You've done your line proud, lad.”

Ori snorted softly and clasped his fingers together over his pile of parchments.

“I'd like to be remembered for my part in the Quest, my work in the library, and inventions like this, not my heritage.” He picked up his coffee, taking another sip.

“Your mother was a fine dwarf. Unconventional, aye, but a fine dwarf,” Dwalin replied, a frown clear in his voice.

Ori snorted again, dipping his quill in ink and starting to scribble. “And my father?”

Dwalin sighed, falling silent. Ori gritted his teeth, swallowing against the hot rush of shame that bubbled in his gut. He was a fool. Bringing up your unsavoury relatives in front of the dwarf you had a fancy for was a terrible idea.

“There have been worse dwarves than Ozur. For all his failings, he was kind. Smart,” Dwalin added, a grudging tone in his voice. “Outsmarted me a few too many times for my liking. He loved you.”

“Not enough to stop his stealing,” Ori snapped, a hot surge of anger rushing up from his belly. “You don't have to pretend to be kind about him, he was in your custody often enough in the Blue Mountains. He was the one who turned Nori's mind and heart to thieving. He was the one who got himself exiled and broke amad's heart, he was the one who-- ...”

Ori cut himself off as his voice cracked. He should never have brought this up.

“... I'm sorry,” he whispered, rubbing his cold fingers over his forehead and eyes. “I'm tired.”

Dwalin's hand was a warm comfort on his shoulder as he hung his head.

“It's just-- ...” Ori stopped himself again, but at the gentle squeeze of Dwalin's fingers he took a deep breath and continued. “I don't know which one I'd rather take after. An exiled thief, or someone who never found their umral and died of heartbreak.”

“Flori was much more than that, lad,” Dwalin said firmly. “She carved you and your brothers, and raised you all despite the pain in her life. You've got her strength, her courage, Ozur's quick mind, and your own gems. What's got you thinking about all this? Was something said?”

Ori shook his head, dropping his hands down onto the table. He glanced up at Dwalin, nerves tugging at the base of his lungs.

“No, no. It's silly. I'm just being silly. It's just that... Dori and Balin are happy, Nori's happy as long as he has a fistful of gold, and I...”

“... You're worried you'll share Flori's fate,” said Dwalin, nodding thoughtfully and clapping Ori's shoulder. He took his hand back a second later, linking his thick fingers together on the table.

Ori hummed out a low noise. Dwalin was mostly right, after all.

Flori had died angrily, only eight years from two hundred, but already weary of the world. He’d only been twenty one when she’d passed. Nori had been missing, and Dori working endless hours at the textile rooms to make enough coin for them. Flori had fallen ill in the autumn, retired to bed in the winter, and hadn't risen again to see the spring. She'd died cursing Ozur. Cursing her heart for leading her from dwarf to dwarf. Each one had left her, in the end, alone. But despite her bitter words, she hadn't been alone. Ori had been there. He'd always been there, from the time he’d been carved, right up until the very end.

She just hadn't seen him.

Whether or not the weight of his feelings for Dwalin were those of finding his umral, he didn't know. Dori had never particularly wanted to find an umral if they were out there, and when he'd met Balin and discovered the other dwarf to be of a similar stone, they'd amicably and easily settled into bâha'kurdu, for company and friendship. They were happy, but it wasn't what Ori wanted. Even Nori, who said he was still looking, was happy with a pocketful of gold and a pipe.

“Sometimes I wonder if that's what's written under the rocks for me, too,” Dwalin murmured, so quietly Ori almost didn't hear him. “Perhaps I'm cut as Balin is.”

“Would that be so bad?” Ori asked, after a few seconds had passed. It would be cruel to have him burn so hot for a dwarf whose forge was not built to burn the same, but he would never begrudge Dwalin if they were carved so differently.

Dwalin heaved a sigh, swilling the last of his coffee around in his mug. He downed it in one, putting the mug down with an audible thunk in the darkness.

“No,” he finally said. “Not if I had my kin around me. But it's not what I want. One hundred and seventy years this summer,” he snorted, tapping his large fingers against the table. “Starting to think I'm passed it, or I missed it.”

“If you want it, you'll find it,” Ori said firmly.

Dwalin glanced over to him, a faint smile tugging the corner of his lips as he ran his hands over his beard and cleared his throat, inclining his head sharply.

“Aye. It's late, and there are things to be done tomorrow.”

“It is,” Ori agreed, putting his quill in its box. He wasn't going to get anything more done tonight, not with these racing, swirling thoughts about his parents and Dwalin. Exhaustion had swept over him, and as he closed his book and picked up his lamp, he yawned deeply. It didn't take long to blow out the candles and gather their used cups, storing them in his pack to be washed later. Dwalin stood, waiting for Ori to draw up alongside him before he lifted his lamp to lead them out, a single, bobbing light in the darkness.

If he wanted to find his umral, he would.

He had to believe that.

 

 

 

 

*

 

_T.A 2942_

_January 27th_

 

 

 

 

Thorin looked up as Kíli placed a stack of letters in front of him. The Company glanced over.

Almost all of them were gathered in a room which had been used for private audiences with the King in the past. Now it was a sort of common room for the Company. The dwarves were seated either at the wide table or on low chairs by the fire; all save Glóin who was touring Erebor with his son, Bombur who was with his newly returned family, and Bilbo who had gone to find himself some supper.

“You've got another lot of them, uncle. Shall I leave them here for you?” asked Kíli innocently, turning one of the letters over in his hands. Nori reached over to pick one up, stifling a laugh as he unfolded it. Several pieces of elegantly braided ribbon fluttered out.

“You might as well toss them on the fire,” Thorin grumbled, pushing them away from where he was writing out careful reports on the construction work happening within the mountain.

Several weak spots had been discovered at key places, and areas previously deemed safe had once more been cordoned off. It was the last thing Erebor needed, and there had been talks about postponing the spring caravans from the Blue Mountains and Iron Hills, for fear of too much weight within weakened chambers.

Smaug's presence lingered like an unwelcome spirit, cracks and fractures within the mountain the broken bones of their ancestral home.

“You'd have enough fuel to heat a forge!” Bofur laughed, whittling down pieces of wood to make toys for the pebbles after their long journeys.

Bifur was sitting quietly beside him, a brush in hand. He was painting each piece with tiny brushstrokes, but he mimed throwing the stack of parchment into the fire, pulling chuckles from the gathered company.

“That would be rude, Thorin,” Balin said calmly, picking up a few of the letters and sifting through them. “They need responses.”

“You can't expect me to reply to every single one,” Thorin scowled, grabbing a fistful himself and letting them flicker down onto the table. “There are tens of them here alone. Tens more from the last weeks. Perhaps now a hundred in total.”

Dwalin glanced over from his seat by the fire, rolling the freshly carved bone handle for a knife between his fingers.

“Aye. That's what happens when the legendary King Thorin, heir of Durin, sits unmarried and un-courted on the throne to the richest dwarf kingdom.”

“As he shall remain,” Thorin grumbled.

In truth, the letters sent odd spikes of dread through his belly and lungs. They seemed more like a nest of vipers than proposals. Óin nodded his head sagely, looking up from a book on herbal medicine Ori had brought him from the library.

“Some silly dwarf even sent me one, laddie. Can't blame them for trying, but I'm not interested,” he huffed.

Fíli and Kíli shared a side-long look and both hid laughter behind their hands; Thorin decided not to comment beyond giving them a stern glance. Dís was on her way back from Dale, but she'd have had a word for them if she was here.

Balin sighed heavily, putting his own pen down and starting to sift through the letters.

“I'll sort them for you, but each needs a reply. Here are ones asking for a meeting to discuss future courtship. Here are ones asking to begin courtship. Should any be declaring umral, I shall put them here.”

Thorin buried his face in his palms, rubbing his fingers against his forehead and temples. He didn't have time to craft individual references, let alone the will and heart for it. Yet it had to be done, whether or not he wanted to. Thorin heaved a deep sigh. He'd do them tonight, before he slept, and sacrifice a few hours rest for what must be done.

“I could write you template letters,” Ori offered after a quiet moment.

Thorin glanced over, some of the tension in his gut lessening at the earnest look on Ori's face. He did his best to twist his expression into something stately and grateful rather than desperately relieved.

“You would do that?”

“Of course,” nodded the young dwarf, “I'll leave a space for you to sign their name at the top, and yours at the end.”

“I would be most grateful,” he replied, inclining his head towards the lad. He'd also make sure a sum for each letter was paid to him, whether or not the young dwarf wanted the gold.

Ori smiled widely at him, and Thorin turned back to his reports, the weight in his gut a little lighter. Signing names was much easier task to face.

A heart beat later the door burst open, Bilbo standing there with a red face and a letter clutched in his hand.

“Right,” he said. “Right. What is this?” He thrust the letter outwards at them all before he scrabbled it close to his front again, unfolding the parchment and clutching it with both hands.

“Perhaps if you'd let me look at it, Bilbo, I could tell you,” Balin said in a kindly and patient voice, pushing his little spectacles further up his nose.

Thorin slowly raised an eyebrow as the hobbit remained frozen for a long moment before he shook himself back into action.

“This,” declared Bilbo, pointing at the parchment before closing the door behind him and striding over to the table, “is a letter. It's a letter from a dwarf, to me, asking-- oh!” he suddenly exclaimed, snatching up one of the proposals the table, his expression shifting from something shocked to something utterly scandalised. “You got one too...! Is that-- … Are those all-- …?! My goodness,” he finished breathlessly, dropping down onto a chair.

Balin gently took Bilbo's letter from his hand, unfolding it and reading aloud.

“Master Baggins, most esteemed hobbit and warrior from the good lands of the Shire. I write to you to request your company, where we might talk, and discover what similarities we may hold. I hope to make my intentions clear, as I would like to opportunity to present myself as a-- … Oh,” Balin broke off and blinked. “As a suitor.”

There was a second of silence before the Company – Thorin and Bilbo notwithstanding – burst into loud, raucous laughter.

Bilbo scowled, his cheeks and ears turning bright pink as he crossed his arms.

“Oh, yes! Ha, ha! Laugh it up, laugh it up. How dreadfully funny, for silly Bilbo Baggins to be on the sharp end of such a fine and _hilarious_ joke.”

“This is not a joke,” Thorin frowned, taking the letter from Balin and examining the signature.

He'd never heard of the dwarf, but he knew he had an identical letter from the same. Someone looking for a political marriage. For wealth, or power.

“... It's not a joke?” Bilbo said, tone soft and hesitant. Then he groaned loudly, dropping his head into his hands.

Balin kindly patted him on the back, putting the letter down and bringing out a fresh sheet of parchment from his pile.

“Not to worry, laddie, I'll help you write a response. Ori, lad, you come over too,” he said, gesturing. The young dwarf nodded, hurrying over to sit beside Balin. He dipped his fine red quill into the dark blue ink and readjusted his spectacles. “I'm assuming,” he continued, a twinkle of amusement still in his eyes, “it's a no?”

“It's definitely a no,” Bilbo huffed, resting his chin on his hand and reaching to pick up one of the ones intended for Thorin, skimming it. “My goodness... You must have hundreds! These are all proposal letters? How dreadful,” he said, mouth twisting into a grimace and nose wrinkling. “I'd hate to have to turn so many down, whether I liked them or not. You know, I had my fair share of suitors when my parents died and I came into my inheritance. All nasty, grabbing letters from hobbits who just wanted a stake in Bag End. Made me feel quite alone, really. Like I didn't know who I could trust.”

Thorin swallowed hard, his ribs constricting. How did Bilbo always cut so quick to the gem? A single tap of the chisel, and the boulder split apart. None of these letters came from the heart. None claimed umral, and none came from any dwarf he had an interest in.

“Are you going to keep getting these letters?” Bilbo asked, a little frown on his face.

Thorin nodded silently, putting his quill down and rotating his aching wrist. He dropped his gaze down to his report again as Bilbo grimaced.

“We've all had a couple – save Glóin and Bombur, who are already married – but Thorin has the most,” Fíli said kindly from his chair, looking up from the book he was reading. “Really though, I think it's a good sign you've had one, too! Weren't you saying you were worried to not be welcome inside the mountain?”

Kíli nodded enthusiastically in agreement, chiming in.

“Not to mention there's a dwarf who wants to marry a hobbit! I think that's a good sign, isn't it? It's not usual – I don't think a dwarf has ever married a non-dwarf – but clearly such a marriage would be acceptable, wouldn't it? Even though you're not a dwarf. And even if, in this case, it's probably just for political reasons, but perhaps it is umral, and then--!”

“--It's not umral, laddie,” Balin said firmly, raising his eyebrows at Kíli, who flushed a dusky shade of pink and shrank down in his chair, hiding behind his book. “Just politics. A dwarf would need a good reason to marry someone who is not a dwarf, after all. There are few creatures who appreciate our culture and our ways, and fewer still who would be accepted as part of the mountain.”

Thorin fought to keep his eyes on his reports, but he'd read the same sentence three times over. Finally he sighed, rubbing his fingers over the bridge of his nose. He looked up, addressing them all with a small frown on his face.

“Bilbo is free to marry this dwarf if he so wishes, and vice-versa. Portents can be read if necessary, and I would bestow the King's blessing should it come to it. The issue is that Bilbo does not wish to marry the dwarf.”

“Exactly! Thank you. And certainly not one I didn't know for some imagined political gain on their behalf!” Bilbo huffed with a derisive noise and a nod of his head.

“Quite,” Dori sniffed. “It's why Balin and I have decided to declare bâha'kurdu publicly. To save us from all this unpleasant business.”

Thorin turned to the second page of the report, dipping his quill in the ink and beginning to underline important words. He tried to tune out the conversation around him.

“Bâha'kurdu, oh. Yes, I remember you telling me about it,” said the hobbit, resting his chin in his palms as Balin started to write. “What a wonderful idea! That would certainly stop the letters.”

“Hah!” laughed Kíli, not looking up from his own book. “You should declare bâha'kurdu with uncle and solve the whole problem.”

Thorin ungracefully knocked over his bottle of ink, only just grabbing at it in time to stop a serious spill. He twisted his torso to face his nephew with his heart rattling in his chest. The company burst into laughter as Kíli peered innocently over the top of his book.

“Kíli,” he growled, a curious heat rushing up his neck.

“It was just a jest...!” the young dwarf protested.

“Just a jest,” Balin said, his tone suspiciously light and airy, “but not a bad suggestion.”

The laughter in the room was extinguished like a candle in a strong gust of wind. Thorin swallowed and shifted in his chair to turn back towards Balin, but before he could do more than twitch, Bilbo was speaking.

“I-- … Well. I've certainly heard worse ideas. That is,” Bilbo continued as Thorin turned to him, “if it meant it would stop all this letter business.”

“It might,” nodded Balin.

Thorin stared at his reports, his heart hammering. He felt almost dizzy, somehow. Worried, though he didn't know why. He'd never considered Bilbo as anything more than a friend. If their friendship continued as it had been doing, he supposed bâha'kurdu wasn't a completely unimaginable term for what they could be, in many years.

“Might?” asked Bilbo.

“Bâha'kurdu is as widely recognised and respected as umral is,” Balin explained, “but if you're looking to avoid a political marriage, I would advise against it.”

The room had gone silent, all attention turned towards Balin.

“What do you mean?” asked Dwalin gruffly, raising his eyebrows and stilling his tools on the knife handle.

Balin gestured towards the letters.

“These are all political marriage offers, something which should be avoided entirely, in my opinion. If Thorin was to, ah, wed Bilbo as bâha'kurdu, it would be seen as a political marriage – which might have the opposite intended effect.”

Fíli frowned and scratched at his chin. “You mean it won't stop the proposals? No one would dare try to propose if they were bâha'kurdu.”

It took all of Thorin's strength to keep his eyes on his report, and not on Bilbo. The urge to look up, to watch the hobbit's reactions to this sort of talk was like an itch under his skin, and his mouth had gone dry.

“Aye, the proposals would stop,” Balin nodded, “but it will create more problems than it will solve. Why should the legendary Thorin Oakenshield, victorious King of the Mountain, Durin the Deathless himself, marry a wee hobbit from the Shire, when it's clearly for politics?”

Each utterance of his titles sent a cold rush down his spine, his stomach curling sickly. He didn't want to get married. He didn't want to declare bâha'kurdu, either. Yet he wanted these letters to stop. The weight of gauging interactions with other dwarves through the veil of his kingship was a burden he felt keenly. Their words felt constructed. Cloying. It was difficult to tell who was genuine, who was seeking gold or marriage or power.

The Blue Mountains had been so much easier, back when they had nothing. When he would spend his days working in the towns of men, when he was a leader, yes, but an equal amongst his kin. There had been pressure, but it had been different.

He had been different.

“A political union between the Shire and Erebor would be good, though,” Kíli said. “They've got tons of food and ale. If Bilbo's anything to go by, hobbits would be good allies.”

“Kind of you to say, Kíli, but I think you'll find I'm a very strange hobbit indeed,” Bilbo replied, “And not to be rude, but most hobbits have very little care for dwarves and their trade. If I went home with some dwarf on my arm, claiming to be married and having fought dragons and all the rest, I'm afraid you'd soon find I wouldn't be welcomed with open arms and doors! Hah! No, I'd be-- … I'd be, well, cracked! Mad old Baggins, they'd call me, but then again... I suppose they are right,” he sighed.

Thorin glanced up, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth. Bilbo had his chin resting on his hands, a glum look on his face.

“Your deeds are worthy of the utmost respect,” he said, his voice quiet. “There is no madness in you, only courage, and honour.”

Bilbo smiled and quirked an eyebrow.

“You forgot loyalty and a willing heart. But thank you, nevertheless.”

There was a half second of silence before Balin spoke again.

“Aye, true enough, a political union between the Shire and Erebor would be beneficial should the hobbits ever wish to trade with us, but the issue lies with our own kind. A dwarf has never married a hobbit before. Our people would be hard pressed to accept such a union, and if it were for mere politics? No, it would not be well-received.”

A strange curl of relief mixed with disappointment settled in Thorin's gut. The room fell quiet, only the crackle of logs on the fire filling the air.

“A marriage for love, on the other hand,” Balin said, his voice light.

Thorin looked up sharply, but before he could even open his mouth, Bofur cut in.

“Oh, aye! Now there's an idea! No one can resist a good romance.”

The grin in his voice was obvious as other members of the Company hummed out their agreements. Heat burned below Thorin's cheeks and neck, grip too tight on his quill.

“That--! But!” blustered Bilbo. “That would be-- … It isn't true. It wouldn't be true.”

“It would be lying to my people,” Thorin agreed, his heart beating oddly loudly in against his ribs as he tried not to look at Bilbo. He focused instead on Balin's face, and his oddly blank, yet pleasant, expression.

It was the same look his friend had when dealing with young pebbles, or if he was in difficult diplomatic situations.

“No more so than bâha'kurdu,” said Balin evenly.

“Not like you'd have to worry about carving heirs,” added Nori from his corner where he'd been dozing.

Bofur nodded in agreement, waggling his whittling knife. “And we could all use a fine wedding to cheer us up!”

“You'd have a chance to visit the Shire,” Ori said to Bilbo. “On the honeymoon, I mean. It's custom to spend time in the other dwarf's mountain range for a while, if they're from different ranges.”

Kíli put his book down, moving to sit up properly on his chair. “This is a new age, Uncle! Bilbo is an honorary dwarf and our people have taken to him. This is a time for moving past the old rules and the old ways of thinking. Erebor was known for its innovation and for being the pinnacle of dwarvendom for all the other kingdoms to follow, wasn't it?”

“Marrying a hobbit is hardly 'innovative', lad,” Óin grumbled, arms crossed over his belly, “next you'll be advising dwarfs to marry the menfolk, or elves.”

Kíli turned a brilliant red, half-climbing to his feet as Fíli frowned sharply, grabbing his brother's hand to tug him back down to sit.

“He didn't say anything about marrying an elf,” said Fíli.

Like a storm breaking, the room thundered into arguments and discussions, voices getting lost in the cloud of shouting.

Thorin looked up, finally catching Bilbo's eyes. For a moment he felt utterly pinned by the hobbit's gaze, the ever-increasing bellowing from his kin fading and muffling, as if he'd ducked his head under water.

Something passed between them, a fleeting brush of understanding in the almost imperceivable tilt to Bilbo's lips, the twitch of his nose, and the movement of his eyebrows. Then Bilbo's eyes flicked towards the door and he tilted his head.

Thorin slammed his hands down on the table, rising to his feet.

“Enough!” he roared, the room falling silent. “This is a suggestion to be discussed between Bilbo and myself. Come,” he said to the hobbit, tone softening.

Thorin pushed away from the table and headed towards the door, holding it open.

He needed a moment of silence. A second of privacy.

The Company was quiet as both of them stepped out into the little corridor. Thorin closed the door behind them, exhaling slowly. Nervousness tugged at his belly like a river's undercurrent, though the cool air and the lack of sound chipped away at some of the tension in his gut.

“Well,” Bilbo said, his voice soft, “as I said, it's not the _worst_ idea I've ever heard.”

Thorin turned to face Bilbo, crossing his arms as he rested his back against the wall. The hobbit had crossed his own arms, fingers tapping against the sleeve of his shirt.

The influx of dwarves with tailoring skills meant Bilbo's clothes had become more hobbitish in style, though the materials were still distinctly dwarven, and it was clear some of his wardrobe was made from modified garments.

“You've never expressed any wish to be married,” Thorin pointed out. “In fact, I distinctly remember you saying you'd never want to be married.”

Bilbo scratched at his chin, nodding his head.

“As did you. It's a silly idea, isn't it? To get married, just to stop a few proposal letters? I imagine the benefits of marriage are different for dwarves, too. Isn't there somewhere we can sit down?” he asked suddenly, looking around the little corridor.

Thorin nodded, pushing off the wall and tilting his head. He led Bilbo down a few doors to the right, into a little room glittering with opal finishings. It had been a waiting room for the Royal Guard, when the royal family was preparing to leave their chambers. Though most of the furniture had been removed for usage in other areas of the mountain, a little orange stone table sat in the middle, two chairs placed opposite each other.

Bilbo dropped down into one, while Thorin slowly sank into the other. He laid his hands flat on the table, looking down at them. Unadorned, his skin clean but calloused. Scarred, too. He couldn't bring himself to wear rings or bracelets – not even those he'd worn during the Quest. Though his goldsickness seemed to have abated, something slithered like a shadow beneath his skin. Something that turned his mind and heart to melancholy, that hollowed him out and painted the brittle walls with suspicion and misery. It kept him awake or kept him asleep, and somehow the emptiness inside him was heavier than any other thing.

“No matter the reason for marriage,” Thorin said slowly, “I would make a poor husband.”

“The hundreds of dwarves trying to propose to you would disagree,” countered Bilbo. The hobbit linked his fingers and rested his chin on them, his eyes sharp

Thorin clasped his hands together on the table and shook his head.

“They are proposing because of my kingship, not my character.”

Bilbo fell silent, gaze dropping downwards.

“Well, what benefits are there to marriage, for dwarves? Ori mentioned something about honeymooning in the Shire,” he said, glancing up again.

Thorin frowned sharply, his chest tightening.

“Bilbo, if you wish to return to the Shire, you need only say. There is nothing holding you here, and I would hope you do not stay beyond your desires for my sake. If you want to leave...”

“I didn't say I wanted to leave. Goodness! If I'd have wanted to leave I'd have gone with Gandalf, wouldn't I? Look, of course I want to see the Shire again. It's my home, and I've got a dreadful feeling Lobelia will have been sticking her awful nose into my affairs despite my stern letters, and yes, I miss the little green hills and the flowers and the markets. I am a hobbit, after all. I've had a grand adventure, and Erebor is certainly becoming more and more spectacular by the day, but the Shire and Bag End will always be my home. I do want to go back, for a little bit at least. And,” he added, “I think it would do you a lot of good to come with me.”

“I can't,” Thorin replied, his voice jerking out without his permission. “I cannot-- … I cannot leave Erebor. I must rule. I must oversee, and provide, and-- ...”

Bilbo's fingers brushing briefly against his knuckles dried the stream of words in his throat. He inhaled sharply, his heart lurching.

“That sort of thinking is _exactly_ why I think you need to get away from the mountain. For a little while.”

Thorin snorted, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I cannot leave the mountain. I only just reclaimed it, I cannot just... Leave it. Who would rule?” He rested his arms on the table, his shoulders heavy.

“Couldn't Fíli? He is crown prince, after all. And your sister would be here, and Balin, and everyone else. It might be good for him, too. A bit of practice. You'd hardly be abdicating! Are you really telling me that from now until the day you die, you have to stay inside Erebor? You can't, it'll drive you-- ...”

Bilbo bit himself off suddenly. The word hung in the air between them.

Mad.

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, reaching out to gently touch his wrist, tone soft. “You're suffering here. I can see that. If this idea would help you or relieve you of some of your burdens, it sounds like a damn good reason to do it to me. I can hardly see myself marrying some hobbit, and marrying you isn't going to worsen my relations with any of my relatives; those are damaged enough already. Even without my share of the treasure here, I'm rather wealthy by a hobbit's standard. As far as I see, I stand to lose nothing from it.”

“It would be a burden to you. You would become the consort, and you would have duties. You would have expectations placed upon you.”

Thorin pressed his fingers to his temples, his head swimming. Was it a terrible idea? Was it inspired, or madness? After all, there was no guarantee his people would accept a hobbit as their consort.

“As long as I wouldn't have to go into another war or face another dragon, I think I can handle it. Thorin, I want to help you.”

“I don't wish to be married out of pity, either,” he growled in response, giving Bilbo a sharp look. It was returned, Bilbo's mouth pinching and his brows furrowing impressively.

“Don't be ridiculous. If I were going to marry someone out of pity, I'd marry that clot who tried to propose to me, or any of the hobbits vying for a piece of my inheritance. Thorin, you are my friend. My very dearest friend, in fact, and I've not been coy about that, not for a moment. I certainly don't _pity_ you, my word! I've said it before and I'll say it again: going to the Shire would be good for you. I know it would be. And if marrying you, as I said, lifts some of your burdens and troubles, I think it's worth considering.”

Thorin heaved a sigh, dropping his head back into his palms.

He didn't know what the right course of action was. If he married Bilbo, there would be potential for better relationships with the Shire, and might ease the journey of those travelling from the Blue Mountains. The balance between him and his kin looking to climb the political ladder would be evened out. He would be king with a consort, with no queries over heirs. Fíli would remain crown prince, and Kíli, third in line. The proposal letters would stop immediately. Bilbo would also be released from the political grubbing of his kin.

Memories of the little valleys and paths of the Shire floated to the front of his mind. Green fields, dappled with sunlight. Sweet, fresh air. Trees with shimmering leaves of gold and silver, dripping with fruit. With life.

If he did marry Bilbo, he would be expected to spend some time in the Shire. It would give Bilbo a chance to return to his own home, and to maintain his links to Erebor. Marrying outside the mountain wasn't unusual for his family. After all, his own mother had been from The Grey Mountains. Thráin spent months there, though their visits had become less frequent as Thorin and his siblings were carved.

Marrying Bilbo would also give Fíli a chance to rule, with Dís and Balin standing in as advisers. It would teach him, in his youth, what Thorin had had to learn as events unfolded around him.

He rubbed his fingers along the lines of his brow, eyes closed as he grappled with each side of the argument.

To marry Bilbo and proclaim it was for love would be a lie to his people. Hadn't he done that enough? Thorin still couldn't shake the feeling his whole existence, here and now, was a lie. He felt as if he was an imposter in his own body, sharing space with something poised to leap.

Perhaps a reason, accepted and encouraged by his people, to step back from kingship would be safer. Perhaps he was still too dangerous to rule, to be trusted with such power. A little time to settle himself to discover what the creature lurking in the depths of his heart was would give him an opportunity to do what he must to ensure it never reared its head again.

“They will want us to court. Publicly,” he said in a gentle tone, dropping his hands down from his face to look at Bilbo.

The hobbit crooked a little smile, raising his eyebrows.

“That sounds interesting,” he nodded. “I suppose Balin will give me lessons in all the endless rules you dwarves are bound to have.”

Thorin inclined his head.

“You'll have duties to perform, if you are consort. Political, and courtly.”

“Hah! We all have duties to perform, anyway. Besides, you said only yesterday you wished I could be in some of your more tedious meetings to lighten the air, didn't you?”

Thorin hummed in agreement, a strange urge to laugh bubbling up from his stomach.

“I shall have to make a public proposal to you.”

Bilbo's smile grew a little wider, mischief shining in his eyes.

“Well, you do make a good speech.”

Thorin laughed, his own lips tugging into a little smile.

“You'll have to wear dwarven finery at the wedding. A lot of it.”

Bilbo's nose scrunched.

“Oh, I suppose I will. So will you, though, so don't look too smug about it. We'll have to compromise on hobbitish and dwarven traditions, so maybe we can get out of the armour, at least. Or you'll have to carry me around all day like a statue, I'll be so heavy.”

Thorin laughed again, a little louder.

This was ridiculous. He and Bilbo were going to marry. Just to get a few politically minded dwarves off their backs, and so he could once more make the long journey across the Misty Mountains to holiday in the Shire. It was absolutely ridiculous.

He felt lighter than he could ever remember.

“Are you sure you really wish to do this, Bilbo?” he asked.

The hobbit paused for a moment, taking a deep breath and crossing his arms. He twitched his nose, lips pursing a little as he looked at Thorin. It felt like Bilbo was seeing right through him, down to every dark, miserable nook and cranny. He fought the urge to squirm.

“Yes,” Bilbo said. “I think I'm ready for another adventure, you know. We should probably head back and let the others know before they go looking for us.”

Thorin snorted. He stood as Bilbo grinned and gestured towards the door. A little rush of affection for the utterly unpredictable hobbit curled in his chest.

“They might think we've eloped,” he said, opening the door for them to leave the room.

Bilbo's bright laughter echoed around the corridor, and though he tried, Thorin couldn't quite wipe the smile from his lips.

 

 

 

 

*

 

_T.A 2942_

_February 1st_

 

 

 

 

Galadriel cradled the Arkenstone in her palm and slowly lowered it into the empty stone basin.

Arwen watched with growing curiosity. She'd been living in Lothlórien for ten years or so, journeying between the golden woods and Imladris when the urge moved her. The pull of Rivendell and the news of her family's return stirred her heart. She would begin her journey back in a few days, but until then, Galadriel had beckoned her towards the glade hidden beneath the yawning roots of the mallorn trees.

This was the centre of her grandmother's kingdom, and magic flowed strongly through it. The moss was green and thick, Arwen's bare feet tingling as magic brushed along her skin.

As the Arkenstone touched the stone basin, the whispers of magic flared in a static crackle. Arwen's breath caught.

Galadriel smiled.

“You feel it, too. Though this is not a magic you have felt before.”

“It feels older,” Arwen replied, taking a step closer to the basin.

 

 

Galadriel nodded and turned, filling a pitcher with the water that trickled out from under the roots. She poured it over the Arkenstone, filling the basin. It sat at the bottom like an exposed heart, the black tendrils within curling.

“Look into the water, child. What do you see?”

Arwen gripped the edges of the basin and looked down into the clear water.

Galadriel rarely allowed anyone to step into the glade, much less gaze upon the mirror. The visions were not bound by any laws or controllable magic, and those who dared look into the waters without guidance often could not comprehend what they had seen. Yet the visions ate at them, devouring their mind and fëa alike.

To be allowed to look was an honour.

She waited, the feeling of ancient magic crawling over her skin making her shiver. Then the water seemed to thicken. The angry red bled out from the Arkenstone, leaving it pure and shimmering again, reflecting a thousand colours.

Her fingers twitched against the basin. She longed to reach for it.

“I feel it too,” Galadriel whispered, walking in slow steps around the glade. “I feel its call. What do you see?”

“I see the stone clear again,” she said. Her voice was hushed. “I see all the colours it reflects.”

The water thickened further. A single dwarf swam into view. He was laying in a tomb, his face white and his body still. She did not recognise him, yet his features were surprisingly delicate for a dwarf. An elvish sword lay on his chest and belly.

He opened his eyes, a pulse of bright light flashing over them before they shone with blue.

A multitude of faces passed in a blur, almost too quick to be seen clearly. There was a man, his face weary but his eyes like steel; Gandalf; King Thranduil of the Greenwood; and her father, a great exhaustion wrinkling his brow. Then came the face of a little hobbit, terror and determination in his tired, red-rimmed eyes. He faded too, flashes of a great red dragon and gold pouring over the surface of the water.

She felt a touch inside the base of her skull. Galadriel was watching, through her eyes.

Gold gave way to endless carved caverns, dwarves dressed in finery below them. Then the curious face of a miner with a candle in his hat, and then icy rock.

Arwen inhaled sharply. It was as if she was being squeezed all over, crushed down as she crawled through the earth. Veins of gold and silver ran out from her, gems and precious stones spreading out from her centre.

She crept for what felt like a millennia, frozen stone finally giving way to burning lava. Her heart ached. She was lost in a sea of churning molten rock, and she understood suddenly that she was but a fragment of a whole, a shard of something which had been frozen and burned and frozen and burned in endless cycles.

Under the pressure of Arda's writhing lands, she'd fractured.

Arwen could feel her body trembling, but it was a thousand miles away from her.

Light filled her vision, light like she'd never seen before. It burned hotter, and smelled like cut grass, like summer in meadows. She was surrounded by it, made whole again, her fragment the central core of the jewel.

Suddenly she was flying through the air, and then cradled in the palms of an elf. The skin around her smoked, burning and bubbling.

The elf's face was twisted with grief and rage, oily tears sliding down his cheeks. Spittle like white foam dripped from his heaving lips, and his long, dark hair whipped around him. His eyes smouldered with agony, and relief, as the molten rock covered his form.

She felt the echo of Galadriel's grief in her own heart.

The flurry of images moved faster and faster.

She was covered in cloth and hidden after being stolen from a great war tent, the taste of metal and crisp red apples on her tongue. Pain wracked her, and then she was forced back into a crown of red, rusted iron.

It was infinitely cold, the metal biting at her edges.

Beneath her the world dipped and swung, but she was carried high above the ground. The stench of blood and death made her stomach heave, and all she could see for miles was destruction. All green had been churned into a belching mire of mud and gore, the bodies of all creatures on Middle Earth discarded around her.

Arwen shuddered, the terrible battle flashing past her eyes. Legions of elves howled as they attacked in frenzied battalions, mountains of dwarves smashing through orc and rock alike. Waves upon waves of menfolk broke and rejoined, an endless sea of glimmering spears and armour like shoals of fish.

Great shadows were cast over the trembling earth, the sky swarming with the monstrous shapes of dragons. In-between the vast beasts soared screaming eagles, their talons and beaks gleaming blades.

She could hear the baying of horns, and figures of all shapes and colours advanced, some as tall as mountain ranges and some as tiny as rabbits and mice, the land quaking beneath their glorious feet. The sun broke through the clouds, illuminating their myriad hues. The elves rallied and Arwen saw Galadriel amongst them, her armour gleaming like exposed bone beneath the gore of war. She splayed her arms wide as she sent twisted creatures with whips of flames staggering back from her power.

Caverns of endless grey stretched out in front of her. A great hand clad in rusted iron reached out, the metal screaming as it scraped and tore at itself. She felt its disgust at being wrapped around such evil and how it tried to escape, buckling in on itself and twisting away from the monster's vile form.

He was king of these lands.

There was brief flash of an elven maid, her voice high and sweet, and a man approaching. The images sped up once more.

She saw the forging of the iron crown, the theft by that great evil from a hidden room, wrenched open by hands that dripped bone pulp. Eight elves looked down on her, a father and his seven sons, each ancient and noble but with a violent love in their eyes.

Arwen heard the whisperings of an oath. The thrill of magic binding her to those words knocked the breath from her lungs, ice running down her spine.

The host of Valinor sat around her. They were laughing, and the land was filled with light. They sat on large cushions on a thick red carpet, the middle sunken with short stairs leading down into it. Strips of gauze and silk dyed in pale pinks, whites, and yellows twirled and fluttered. The walls were hung with dark red curtains, some pulled open to reveal a beautiful harbour and the wide sea, others tied closed.

She felt, in another world, tears dripping down her cheeks.

Hands like thin mountain air touched her. The weight of a thousand stars smothered her, the night sky wrapping around her in an embrace, hardening her edges so nothing on Arda could break or mar her.

The images slowed and opened around her.

Arwen's feet curled into grass softer than any other on Middle Earth, its colour so bright it was almost blue. The air was sharp and sweet with the scent of flowers, and everything around her shimmered with life.

Two trees soared above her, their silver and gold leaves entangling. The branches sang in the breeze, dancing with the birds and butterflies that drifted from leaf to leaf. Their two great forms glowed with an internal light.

Arwen stepped forwards, reaching out to touch their trunks.

Like wisps of dawn mist the vision dissipated, and she was left staring at her own reflection on the water.

She gasped for breath, her whole body shaking. Sweat dripped down her skin and her knees buckled, but before she could hit the ground, Galadriel caught her.

“Your strength will return soon, child. Rest a moment. You have travelled far.”

Arwen nodded, letting herself be guided to sit beside the basin. She touched her cheeks, wet with tears and more still falling.

“Minuiemil, it was so beautiful,” she whispered. “The two trees... Their light...”

“It lives on,” said Galadriel, cupping Arwen's cheeks to lift her head. “You have seen it.”

Arwen swallowed, closing her eyes.

“I don't understand.”

The grief of the visions weighed heavy on her heart.

Though she had never seen the faces of the eight elves before, she knew them to be Fëanor and his seven sons. She had seen Valinor, seen the two trees, and glimpsed at something she felt she would never witness with her own eyes.

“Dry your tears. You may yet see it. My mirror does not show all that will be. Come, turn your mind to your questions.”

Arwen looked into her grandmother's eyes, the edges crinkled with her smile. They seemed as eternal as the wide sea, but warm, and full of love. She nodded, taking her grandmother's hands and rising to her feet.

“It is one of the three gems,” said Arwen, drying the tears on her cheeks. “But only a shard. Did you know?”

Galadriel stepped back, starting to walk in a slow circle around the basin.

“I did not know. I suspected the stone was but mithril, or something of the like. I did not travel to Erebor, nor did I trouble myself with the whims of the dwarves, for they did not weigh upon my mind.”

“Did king Thranduil not see it?” Arwen asked, looking into the basin once more.

The Arkenstone sat at the bottom of the clear water, but the red and black had not returned. It was truly empty.

“Yes. I suspect he wished for it, but did not know why. He is Sindar, and has never seen the light. He would not have known it for what it was.”

Arwen reached into the cool water, lifting the stone out. The first time Galadriel had bid her take the Arkenstone, there was a dread weight and warmth to it, and she had dropped it back into its box a second later. Now it felt buoyant in the air, but cold.

“It is only a shard... How was it broken? Varda hallowed them, I saw-- … I felt her protection. No thing on Arda could break or mar them.”

Galadriel smiled, inclining her head.

“No thing on Arda, but Arda itself has shattered this stone. I suspect more lay buried in the deep earth. Perhaps even the silmaril cast into the ocean has been broken in the same manner.”

Arwen lifted the stone to the streams of light filtering through the mallorn. At the very centre was a sliver of some clear stone, only just visible when turned in the light. It was like a wisp of cloud passing across the sun, a fleeting shadow under water.

“The silmarils burned the hands of those who touched them,” she said. “How did this not burn those who took it from the earth?”

“It is wrapped in crystal,” answered Galadriel. “The shard you see buried inside it would have burned those unworthy to touch it, but it is protected. It would have felt warm, and magical to those who could perceive it.” She began to scoop the clear water out of the basin with a wide cup, pouring it between the roots of the trees and the moss which grew around them.

“Where has the light gone...?” Arwen said after a moment of silence.

Galadriel smiled and set the cup down in its place.

“You know where it is now.”

The image of a dwarf's face came back to Arwen, his beard short and streaks of white in his hair.

“A dwarf,” she whispered, “raised from the dead.”

Galadriel nodded. She shook out a fine cloth, covering the Arkenstone with it. Arwen let the stone drop into the cloth, covering it completely and handing it to her grandmother. Galadriel tucked it into her robes before taking Arwen's hand to guide her out from the glade.

“Thorin Oakenshield. I have seen him. I have seen the light in him. He does not yet understand it, nor will he for some time.”

Arwen frowned, climbing the steps out of the little glade, the moss soft under her bare feet. She felt a little dizzy still, and the memories of her visions drifted behind her eyes.

“You will not tell him? Why?”

“He will not understand. It will torment him, unless he is ready to understand what has brought him back, and why. Even I cannot answer these questions for him, but I sense he will be of great importance. He will influence some thing which has been set in motion,” she said, looking at Arwen with a small, soft smile. “He will bring light to the dark.”

The face of a hobbit passed through Arwen's mind again, his wide eyes so full of terror and strength. A shadow of gold fluttered in them, and was gone.

“Come,” said Galadriel, bringing Arwen to a spacious glade. “Rest. Soon you will travel back to Imladris, where your brothers and father wait for you.”

“And Thorin Oakenshield? What becomes of him now?” she asked, sitting on a low chair and resting against it, a great exhaustion washing over her.

“I go to meet he who seeks the light for himself,” said Galadriel, smoothing Arwen's hair back from her face. Arwen closed her eyes, the soft press of her grandmother's lips against her forehead a balm to her agitated thoughts.

She drifted into sleep, her dreams filled with gold and silver leaves, and the soft singing of the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Someone reported my fics on Ao3 - This is why!](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com/post/148307664796/so-someone-reported-me-on-ao3)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> If you or anyone you know shows symptoms of what's been detailed in this chapter, you can find a [good list of hotlines here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/post/21961172409/accepting-help-is-brave-hotlinescrisis-lines), as well as [a good list of chatrooms here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/chatrooms). 
> 
> You can find [me](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com), and [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com) all on tumblr! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sending them a message, too! 
> 
> The amount of work these amazing people put in as betas can never be measured. They dedicate so much time and effort, and I'm so grateful for their insight and work.
> 
> [Youtube video of 'Ibinê Mim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4).  
> [Azhâr's soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari).
> 
> List of Khuzdul and Sindarin used in order of appearance:  
> Adad - Father  
> Azsâlul'abad maidmî! Azhâr maidmî - Welcome to Erebor! Welcome home  
> Lukhûdu'arisî - Lightbulbs  
> Thanbê mim - My little thundercloud  
> Umralê - My one  
> Amad - Mother  
> Abantumun'arsur - Thermos  
> Umral - One (in the sense of one's 'One' in love)  
> Bâha'kurdu - friend-heart  
> Minuiemil - Grandmother


	12. Natamzirîn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I just wanted to thank you all for your continued support :) Azhâr is starting to bloom now, as the ~marriage~ gets underway. Thank you all for your time in reading, commenting, bookmarking, and kudos'ing. I'm so blown away by the response to this fic <3
> 
> This chapter is pretty much pure, shippy fluff ;)
> 
> Please make sure to go back a few chapters to check out the amazing art by [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), [Pop](http://www.poplitealqueen.tumblr.com) and [Quel](http://www.tosquinha.tumblr.com), as well as the amazing picture in this chapter by Ruto!!!
> 
> And to my (now) THREE betas who put in a simply unbelievable amount of work, [Tea](http://mcmanatea.tumblr.com), [Mith](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com) and [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), I really couldn't do any of this without your help. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> There's also a song in this chapter! The music was written and performed by the wonderful [Dets](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com)! Yes, _the_ Dets, hehe! The words were written by me, but all credit for the song goes to her  <3 Thank you!
> 
> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> [Please come say hi to me on Tumblr!](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> I'd also like to add some potential trigger warnings on this chapter, to do with anxiety, depression, and panic attacks. Please be aware symptoms of these are explored in the following chapter. 
> 
> Also for cavity-inducing fluff. Have fun.

 

 

 

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_February 14th_

 

 

Thorin lifted the little silver bead up to the warm light from the forge, turning the cooling metal between his fingers.

“It's rubbish, isn't it?” asked Bilbo, arms crossed and smudges of coal dust and dirt on his pink face. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled up to his elbows, and more soot dirtied his hands and arms. Curls of his hair were dampened with sweat, sticking to his forehead.

“No,” Thorin said carefully, rolling the misshapen lump of metal back and forth. “It's a fine fifth attempt.”

Bilbo groaned loudly, clasping the sides of the anvil and shaking his head.

“Bother and blast these courting customs! Why can't I buy a nice one from the market and give you that? Why do I have to make it?”

Thorin put the bead in the steadily growing pile, unable to bite back the fond smile. They were in a private forge above the newly rebuilt marketplace, in the remains of what had been a jewellery shop, with its own little crafting chamber. Though it had taken a while to light the fires and melt the ingots away from the main forges, the room was quiet and out of the public eye.

“Because I already proposed to you, and we are breaking enough rules as it is. You should be forging this alone.”

“Hah! Yes, and then you'd be getting a very small metal pancake instead of a bead, if I was expected to do this by myself,” Bilbo said, rubbing his hand across his forehead. Another streak of soot joined the first. “I just don't think I'm going to get the hang of this in time to make something nice. You said it yourself, dwarves spend decades learning these crafts – not hours!”

Thorin hummed in agreement, moving to place some more silver in the forge. He pumped the bellows, feeling the heat wash over his skin like a deep balm. The coals burned white, and the little chunk of silver began to melt.

“I did. I am not expecting a dwarven bead.”

“Well you're not getting much of a bead at all, at this rate,” grumbled Bilbo, though the hobbit resolutely picked up the little hammer again.

Thorin laughed, taking the molten metal out of the fire, and slowly pouring it into the casing for the bead, inserting the little metal rod to make the hole. He clasped it shut, placing it carefully on the anvil to cool. Soon the molten metal would harden but not solidify completely, and Bilbo could once again try to shape the silver into a bead.

“Perhaps not, but it shall match the spoon I carved for you.”

Bilbo's expression brightened and he chuckled, tapping the hammer against the edge of the anvil.

“Well, as you said,” he smirked, mischief in his eyes, “the spoon was a fine fifth attempt.”

Thorin inclined his head as graciously as he could manage. Woodcarving had never been a strong suit of his, but he and Bilbo had agreed to include aspects of courtship from both their cultures, and cut some out from both as well. Balin had drawn up a long document, detailing the conditions of their courtship and explaining what would be brought in from Hobbit customs, and subsequently what dwarven customs would be dropped to make room for them.

The courtship would last around two months, if all went as planned. It gave them time to organise the wedding, replenish stocks enough that the expense could be spared, and ensure Erebor was ready to open its doors to those invited.

Thorin undid the little clasp, setting the cooling bead onto the anvil – though he didn't remove the rod piercing through it.

“Gently, now. Try to feel the silver under the hammer. Not too hard, not too soft.”

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo grumbled, lifting the little hammer and starting to tap at the metal, holding one end of the metal rod to keep it still.

Thorin watched, though his eyes were drawn again and again to Bilbo's face. His nose and brow were scrunched with concentration, gaze serious. Though his skin was smeared with dirt, it glowed with sweat from the heat of the forge, and the physical nature of shaping metal.

Perhaps they should have had Bilbo do this in the main forges. Any dwarf seeing Bilbo working like this, with such earnest determination, would find themselves endeared to him. It would be good for his public image – not that the hobbit needed any help with that. With the help of Balin, he had been effectively charming the people in the week leading up to the public proposal.

So much so, in fact, that said proposal had been met with almost unanimous approval from the dwarves. According to Balin, those who had objected – quietly or loudly – were the ones trying to make political moves within Erebor, and were best avoided regardless.

“Steady,” Thorin said, reaching out to gently cover Bilbo's hands, just before he put a dent in the bead. “See how thin the silver will become here, if you flatten it more? It will buckle.” He took his hands back, gesturing for the other to continue.

Bilbo sighed heavily but nodded, turning the bead and tapping gingerly at the back of it.

The hobbit was a legend within the mountain, now. The little halfling from the Shire who had travelled Middle Earth, following an exiled king into the very jaws of a dragon, and back out again. All, as his subjects understood it, for love. He had snatched the Arkenstone from Smaug's claws, battled Azog the Defiler, and found Thorin after the fateful battle on the ice lake. Bilbo had kept vigil by his tomb, and, when he woke again, Bilbo had been there with his nephews.

It was, as Nori had pointed out, a perfect romance story. The people would lap it up, whether Bilbo was a dwarf or not. Perhaps more so. Loyalty, and love, were highly valued among the dwarves.

Bilbo shook his head, turning the bead back and forth as he looked it at, the surface a mountain range of miniature peaks and troughs.

“I just can't help but feel it's going to be embarrassing, to wear this. You are a king, after all, and this is barely fit for an orc.”

“An orc wouldn't know so fine a bead if it was hit in the face by it. A goblin, on the other hand, might return it to the-- ah,” he chuckled, stepping out the way as Bilbo neatly tapped his arm with the little hammer, though a smile was stretched over his features.

“I'll get your fingers next time, if you keep teasing me! I was very nice about your wonky heart-spoon, wasn't I?”

Thorin didn't try to hide the smile, reaching to gently turn Bilbo's fingers so he'd work on the thicker part of the bead.

“You were,” he agreed easily, watching as Bilbo started to tap once more at the metal.

“I have to eat with it, you know, at the wedding supper. It'll be a small mercy if I don't end up spilling the soup everywhere with that uneven bowl you carved.”

Thorin watched the hobbit start to work over the bumps and dents, doing his best to smooth them out with little knocks against the silver. So far, it was the best one he'd made.

“Perhaps it will distract from the silver lump in my braid,” he said.

Bilbo laughed loudly, shaking the little hammer in Thorin's direction in warning.

“Now, look! As happy as I am to see you in better spirits than I have in far too long, you're distracting me from this needlessly difficult task. Be quiet, or you'll be melting all the silver in Erebor, and I'll be a hundred and two before I've made this damn thing.”

Thorin held both his hands up in a peaceful gesture, then clasped them behind his back. He fell silent, watching again as Bilbo carefully worked the metal.

There was little skill in his movements, and even less natural instinct in the shaping of metal with anvil and hammer, but Bilbo worked with careful determination, and something akin to respect.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, letting his eyes close for a moment.

Some of the sickening weight had lifted in his chest over the last week. The days leading up to the proposal had been fraught with worry and tension, and he'd barely been able to sleep or eat. Thoughts of his people refusing to accept a marriage outside of dwarvendom had plagued him, along with vivid images of he and Bilbo banished from the mountain for even daring to suggest it.

Or worse, if they had seen through the lie of their love, and cast them out for daring to say such a thing when it was untrue.

None of that had happened.

He'd proposed at the monthly meeting Dori and Balin held in the Public Chambers, where they told the assembled crowd of dwarves what work had been completed, what was yet still to do, and any upcoming festivities or matters of import.

Thorin had expected his proposal to be met with stunned silence, mutterings from the crowd, and upset. Instead, it was met with thundering cheering, solidified by the Company afterwards spinning the epic tale of their adventure and love to all and any dwarf who would listen.

“There,” Bilbo said, holding the little bead up. “That's an acceptable shape now, isn't it? What do I do next?”

“Next you engrave it,” Thorin replied, brought back to the present moment. He picked up a little set of fine tools, bringing it over to the anvil, along with a book of example patterns and runes. Bilbo's nose twitched as he leafed through the pages, studying each one. Then he looked up, waving his hands to shoo Thorin away.

“Don't look! This bit seems doable enough, so I'll keep it as a surprise. Sit over there and work on your song or poem. I'll call if I need a hand.”

“As you wish,” Thorin said, a tug of fondness pulling at his ribs. He went to sit at the little table, taking some spare parchment from the knapsack they'd brought with them.

Bilbo would be a fine Consort. Far better than the king he stood beside, and Thorin could trust him almost more than he could trust any other.

Of them all, Bilbo was the most likely to stop him, should he become changed somehow.

The sound of tapping rang out in the little room as Thorin dipped a quill in ink, beginning to write out words and phrases for the courting song.

 

 

*

 

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_February 18th_

 

 

Valka fluttered the feathered end of her quill against her beard, staring down at the list of things she still had left to do. Most of them were centred around their shop, and the importation of materials from the Iron Hills.

Boats had now been sent down the River Road, careful and exploratory, making sure the waterways were safe to use. All had reported good paths and clear sailing.

She stifled a yawn against the back of her hand, stretching out her legs. The room was warm, lit by a small fire, and she was in a long tunic and wearing soft, woolen socks which sat snug over her knees. Her armour had been discarded, and a loose shawl was draped around her shoulders. It was late evening, and she’d decided to stop by Thorin Stonehelm’s chambers before she went to bed. She hadn’t had a chance to see him in a few days, and she’d found herself missing her friend.

“Da says we'll be returning to the Iron Hills after the wedding,” Thorin said, looking up from his own stack of letters, dressed in similar clothes, his red hair in a simple braid. “You know he won eighty gold coins by betting on the King proposing to the halfling before the end of the year?”

“Eighty?” she laughed, crossing out 'sweep and scrub shop front and back room'. “What's the Lord of the Iron Hills to do with eighty gold coins, when he has a hundred times that in the royal treasury alone?”

Thorin tsked, shaking his head.

“It's the principle of the bet,” he grumbled.

Valka grinned, prodding his shoulder with the end of her quill.

“And how much did you lose? I remember you telling us you thought Bilbo Baggins would be gone when the first breath of spring touched the valley,” she said. Thorin's cheeks burned red under his fiery beard, and he hastily scrawled his name at the end of a letter and folded it into the envelope.

“... Forty gold coins,” he said, gaze averted. “Twenty to da.”

Valka laughed loudly, slamming her hand against the table and shaking her head. The pots of ink wobbled and Thorin reached out to steady them with a scowl. It quickly softened and he chuckled along, starting to write another letter.

Valka crossed out 'set up bolts of cloth'. It had taken the better part of a week, but it had been done.

“... Ma will be pleased to have us back,” Thorin said softly, clearly penning a letter to his mother. “Da's been missing her. He's written her a letter every day. I'm sure she's sick of them.”

“Aye, she was probably enjoying the peace and quiet with Stonehelm and Ironfoot out her mountains,” Valka said, nudging her foot against his.

Thorin gave another short laugh, writing in his oddly looping handwriting. She'd always teased him about it, telling him it looked like an elf's copy of a pebble's runes, but it did at least make his letters stand out in a pile.

“Don't try to tell me you haven't missed your family, even with Master Valkur here.”

Valka hummed in agreement, crossing out 'organise patterns for us & customers'.

“I miss my mother,” she agreed, nodding her head. “And my grandparents.”

“Will you return to the Iron Hills...?” Thorin asked, voice quiet.

The question of returning – when, or whether – had hung heavy over the heads of the dwarves of the Iron Hills. More caravans were arriving every few weeks, from the Blue Mountains, the Grey Mountains, and even the Orocarni ranges. Dwarves of Erebor, scattered over Middle Earth, had been returning to their home.

There was no lack of space, but Valka had grown up in the Iron Hills. Her mother's side of the family were from the Iron Hills, and while Erebor was beautiful – even in its current state – she wasn't sure it was home.

“I don't know. Not while my father needs help, and...” she trailed off, the image of Prince Fíli flashing through her mind, his golden hair shimmering and his kind features warm with his smile.

She felt her cheeks warming up and quickly turned her head, hoping Thorin hadn't noticed.

It was ridiculous. There was no chance this was umral. One didn't just find umral in a prince. Not like that.

“Now that's a face of a miner crying crystal over diamonds,” Thorin said, his tone teasing but his hand on her arm gentle.

“I'm not crying anything over anything, thank you very much. Keep your pick out of other's mines, won't you?” she said, crossing out: 'Arrange display pieces' with more vigour than strictly necessary.

“Alright,” he replied, taking his hand back. “But don't turn your nose up at a genuine offer to talk if something's on your mind. You do that far too often. You're not a solitary peak.”

Valka sighed heavily, shoulders drooping a little. Thorin was right, as he often was. She didn't like reaching out for help, and often spurned those who tried. She'd grown up with her own mind from the start, as her mother always said, and didn't like to rely on anyone else.

“It's nothing, Thorin. I'm sure of it. But if it turns into more than nothing, you'll be the first one I tell. I just want to think about it a little more myself, first.”

“As you will,” Thorin said, giving her another long, searching look. “But burdens shared are burdens halved, as da always says.”

“Aye, and he's a wise man. As soon as I know the nature of the burden, I'll load you up with so much you'll wish you never asked,” she grinned, trying to lighten the tone.

Thorin laughed, the beads in his beard clinking as he shook his head fondly.

“Now that'll be the day!”

Valka grinned, giving him a wink before turning back to her list.

She had real, proper work to do, and little time for daydreaming about princes – no matter how handsome and kindly they seemed to be.

No matter how much she wanted to see him again. Just for one more glimpse.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_February 21st_

 

 

Thorin carefully opened the door to the secluded dining room with his foot, a wide tray covered with a cloth in his hands. He was acutely aware of the gaggle of dwarves at either end of the corridor, all watching him while pretending not to. Word had – with Bofur's help – spread around the mountain, and every dwarf seemed to know tonight Thorin would be presenting Bilbo with two more courting gifts, both from hobbit traditions.

Of course it was to be a private affair, but that hadn't stopped the small crowds of dwarves bustling where they didn't strictly need to be, all vying for a glance at him and the tray he was carrying. He had also discarded his royal robes and the crown, dressing instead in a simple dark blue tunic and dark trousers, his silver ornate boots on his feet.

The door swung closed behind Thorin as he stepped into the room, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief to be away from the crowds.

“Oh, there you are! I was starting to wonder if I had the wrong room,” Bilbo said, standing up from the little table.

It had been laid with pretty green crockery, simple white linen covering the stone, and in the middle sat a silver vase with a few hardy-looking flowers in it. An identical tray to his own, covered with a cloth, sat beside the fire. The hobbit clasped his hands behind him, rocking up onto his toes. He smiled, but his gaze kept skittering away.

Thorin placed his tray onto the table, careful not to upset the arrangement of the items.

“Are you alright?” he asked, watching as Bilbo brushed his fingers down his waistcoat, touching over his pockets before twisting them together.

“What? Yes. Of course! Are you? You're looking a lot better, you know, I dare say you've even put on a little weight. And you don't seem so exhausted. Yes, you're looking a lot better.”

Bilbo picked up his own tray, moving it from beside the fire and placing it on the table, next to Thorin's own.

“I do feel better,” agreed Thorin, pulling out his chair and sitting down after neither of them had moved for a moment.

He'd felt lighter these last few weeks than he could remember feeling in years. His appetite had returned, and he found himself falling asleep easier, and rising with more vigour. Perhaps it was the oncoming spring after what had felt like an endless winter, but there seemed to be a little hope on the horizon.

He still didn't know by what magic he was alive again. No word had come from Gandalf, or the elves, on the nature of the Arkenstone. Yet the dark shadows in his heart had slunk away, and the dreams of burning beings calling to him in unknown tongues had stopped. The rising tides of panic which had swept through him, uncontrollable and born of nothing, were calm.

If there had been some foul spirit in him, he felt free of it.

“Good! Well, good. That's very good,” Bilbo said with a sharp nod of his head, sitting down on his own chair before standing again, fussing around the table and straightening the cutlery.

After a few seconds, Thorin reached out to gently catch the hobbit's wrist.

“Bilbo. What's wrong?” he asked, a frown tugging at the edges of his lips.

“Nothing! Nothing's wrong. Nothing, it's just-- ...” said Bilbo, biting off the end of his sentence.

“Just?” Thorin prompted, squeezing the hobbit's wrist before he let go.

“... It's just... When we were doing the dwarf things, it felt... It felt like a game, almost. You see? Making the bead and writing the songs, it all felt... It didn't feel real. But this,” he said, gesturing to the table, “this is... I grew up on stories of my father making my mother soup so clear it was like water, and her having made a special strawberry and blueberry jam for him, almost a year prior, as she was planning this meal from the moment she saw him. This feels... real.”

Bilbo sighed, sitting down heavily onto his chair.

“And I know it's not real,” he continued, rubbing his hand across his forehead. “I really do know that. I suppose I'm trying to say that... well. I don't know, to be honest with you. I'm nervous. Isn't that strange?”

“I won't pretend to understand,” Thorin said after a few seconds of silence, “but we don't have to do this. You don't have to eat this dinner with me, if it is upsetting you, and if you're having second thoughts, we can call the courtship off.”

Thorin's chest felt tight. His fingers curled into fists on his knees, and his mouth was suddenly dry. To have to tell his people the courtship had ended... it would be a humiliation, whether the courtship was real or not; but if it was causing Bilbo distress he'd do it without question.

“No,” Bilbo said, tone firm. “No, I don't want that. I'm just being silly.”

“I don't want to cause you distress. Not for a moment,” said Thorin, leaning forwards in his chair. “This was meant to bring us both a semblance of peace, but if it now has become a burden, I would not have you carry it.”

A gentle smile touched the edges of Bilbo's lips. The hobbit reached over, gently patting Thorin's hand across the table.

“It's not a burden, Thorin. I really do mean it, I am just being silly. I'm not going to trample the posy, don't you worry.”

“Trample the posy...?” Thorin asked, a shiver of relief twisting through his gut.

He knew Bilbo well enough now to see when he was not being truthful, or was pretending to say or do something because he felt he had to. There was only sincerity in his hazel eyes, the edges crinkled with his smile.

“Oh! It means to, ah... to run away on one's wedding day, out of nerves. The idea is that you drop the flower posy you're holding, and step on it in your hurry to escape.”

Thorin chuckled, nodding his head in understanding. Bilbo grinned back and clapped his hands together.

“Well! Enough of silliness, I'm starving. I suppose we should do this properly. Seeing as you technically asked for my hand in marriage, very kind of you, you show me what you've brought first, give me the garland, and then I do the same, yes?”

“Alright.”

Thorin carefully plucked the cloth back from the tray. A shiver of nervousness went through him as he revealed the silver bowls and plates, the flower garland sitting neatly on one side.

He'd gone out in the morning with Kíli, both of them sneaking away at dawn, his nephew bringing his bow and arrow. Between them they'd managed to hunt down a few scraggly rabbits and one very fat pigeon, as well as a good amount of flowers. Kíli had confessed to escorting the elf still in the mountain around the walkable hills, and she had pointed out the flowers they were now picking. While he didn't understand for a moment Kíli's tolerance of the elf, he'd been grateful nonetheless for the flowers.

The garland had a slim base made from the twisted stems of long stalks of grass, interwoven into a loop. Between the stems he'd tucked the flowers. They were small, in delicate shades of white, pink, and blue. Their stalks were coarse and their petals hardy, and they seemed sturdy for their small size.

Bilbo beamed and took it from Thorin's hands, turning it to inspect the craftsmanship.

“Oh, it's lovely!” he laughed, “And so dwarven. It's very cleverly done. Where did you find the flowers?”

“Kíli aided my search,” Thorin admitted, a smile tugging at his mouth as Bilbo placed the garland on his head.

“Ah! I suppose he found these while out walking with Tauriel, then,” smiled Bilbo, touching over the flowers before taking his hands away. His nose twitched as he sniffed. “Something smells wonderful.”

Thorin took the hint and began taking the lids off the silver bowls and platters. First he uncovered the pigeon, plucked and stuffed with garlic and rosemary, and roasted. A small jug of thick gravy sat beside it with a few bread rolls and some squares of butter. Next was a bowl of roasted potatoes, crispy and golden. Then he took the lid off the first of two small bowls, this one sitting in a shallow dish of ice, revealing cubes of ice-cream made with honey and cinnamon spices brought from the Orocarni mountains. Finally he opened the lid of the last bowl, showing Bilbo a mound of delicately fried mushrooms sighing steam into the air.

The hobbit made a low noise in the back of his throat, pressing his hand over his heart.

“Where on earth did you...” he breathed. “You said dwarves never ate mushrooms...!”

“I did,” Thorin nodded. “I sent a raven to the caravans, asking for any found to be picked and brought to Erebor. Bombur, and a book from the library, aided me in discarding the poisonous ones.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, his gaze fixed on Thorin's face.

Thorin blinked, something in Bilbo's expression making him pause. His hazel eyes were wide but his brows were pinched. It wasn't a happy or pleased expression, but it was neither sad, nor angry. Just... surprised, almost.

 

 

“... You did say mushrooms were your favourite food, didn't you?” Thorin asked, after the silence had stretched on a little too long for comfort.

“Huh...? Oh. Yes, I did. I do. I mean, they are,” Bilbo said, giving his head a shake as if he was snapping himself out of a daze. “Well. You've surpassed all expectations, let me tell you. Mine hardly stands in comparison!”

Bilbo quickly pulled the cloth from his own tray, an array of similarly covered dishes and a flower garland of his own making.

“This is good news for you, by the way, if you're a hobbit,” Bilbo said, handing over the garland. “It means I accept.”

Thorin smiled, taking the flowers. This one had no base of woven grass, only the long stems tied in clever little knots kept it together. They were also a different sort from the ones Thorin had found, these with large white and blue petals overlapping. Sprigs of dark green leaf gave it body, and it sat neatly on his hair was he placed it on his head.

Bilbo hummed in approval, eyes twinkling.

“Very fetching. Brings out the sapphires in your eyes and the mithril in your hair.”

“Ah, you have been reading dwarven poetry,” Thorin chuckled. “In Westron, or Khuzdul?”

“A little of both,” said Bilbo with a pleased smile, taking the lids off the bowls and plates. “Glóin's been showing me his favourites.”

The first dish uncovered was a large portion of smoked ham, cut into thick slices. On the side of the plate were eggs in three different styles. Four were fried, two were boiled, and there was a neat little omelette too, folded in half.

Thorin laughed, Bilbo's grin mischievous.

“Don't think I've forgotten you demanding ham and eggs for breakfast, that first night we met!”

“How could I, when I am so starkly reminded? Are they all themed around my early offences?” Thorin asked, a smile still firm on his lips.

Bilbo chuckled, taking the next lid off. In a shallow bowl was a thick fillet of salmon, drizzled in a creamy sauce with a lemony scent. The pink flesh was flaking away from the bone, reminiscent of the fish he'd caught one night when they'd camped next to a river. He'd confessed his love of salmon to Bilbo, though it wasn't typical dwarven fare. His mother had been fond of it, and some of his earliest memories were of her cooking the fish in their little personal kitchen.

He had no idea Bilbo had remembered.

Then the hobbit uncovered a delicate cake, and Thorin caught the unmistakable whiff of coffee from the light brown dessert.

“You weren't the only one writing letters to caravans,” Bilbo said, his expression pleased.

The last bowl he uncovered was simply full of a dark broth.

“This one is rather selfish, I'll admit,” said Bilbo softly. “It's the same one I put together, when you... when you came back. I don't know why I made it, really, goodness knows this isn't meant to be about bringing up bad memories, it's just... That whole week is a blur, but I have this one memory, as clear as a spring brook. I was feeding you the broth I'd made, and I remember thinking... Well. That you really were alive. You really were back. This supper, it's meant to mean something, so I...” Bilbo sighed heavily, his smile soft and weary. “I made the broth. You needn't eat it.”

“Thank you,” Thorin said, his throat tight. He remembered. He'd been embarrassed to be fed, and Bilbo had given him a sharp talking-to for such nonsense.

The hobbit had been so small on the armchair. He’d sat with his knees drawn to his chest, wrapped in an elven coat. There had been a hollowness to his face Thorin had never seen in him before, and weariness clung to his form.

Thorin swallowed, looking up at Bilbo.

“It means something to me, too.”

Bilbo's smile turned relieved, and the look he gave Thorin was warm.

“Well. Thank goodness for that. Let's eat before it gets cold. You should serve, as it's tradition, but we share all the dishes – that way we get a nice mix, hmn?”

Thorin nodded in agreement, sitting forward to begin carving the pigeon. He took care to load Bilbo's plate with food and poured some of the broth into a little bowl for him, though he left the desserts for later. Then he served himself, sitting back with a bigger portion than he could remember taking in a long while. Every dish looked and smelled amazing, and he was hungrier than he'd been in months.

When he looked up after pouring them both water, Bilbo was staring at him with that curious look on his face again. A smile lingered around his lips, but his eyebrows were slanted upwards in the middle, and while he didn't seem upset, Thorin thought he saw a touch of melancholy in his features.

“... Bilbo? Is everything alright?” he asked.

“What? Oh! Yes, yes. Of course. Your flowers are a little crooked, that's all,” said Bilbo with a laugh, picking up his cutlery and dropping his gaze quickly.

“Oh.” Thorin reached up to rearrange them on his head. Bilbo nodded, starting to cut into his food.

“Much better! You know, it's strange, but those flowers seemed to have perked up a little. They were wilting, but they seem much more lively, now.”

Thorin touched the petals again, but felt no difference.

“I will take your word for it,” he said, shooting Bilbo a smile as the hobbit started to eat. He followed suit, a comfortable silence settling between them, peppered with easy conversation and laughter.

In the firelight, Bilbo seemed to glow around the edges. It didn't take long for them to finish their supper, Bilbo sighing happily over each mushroom, and when the food was done they stayed at the table, talking until each sentence was interrupted by a yawn.

Later, when Thorin climbed into his bed and closed his eyes with his belly full and heart light, he fell asleep quickly and dreamed only of a flower-filled meadow, and a warm summer breeze.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_February 26th_

 

 

 

Thranduil set down a goblet of wine on the low table in front of Bard. A cool breeze washed over him, shifting the loose strands of his hair and the hem of his robes. Spring in the forest was warm, but outside, at night, there was still a breath of winter in the air. A persistent chill, one Thranduil could never be sure was in the air, or in his own imaginings.

They were on a balcony overlooking the Taur Celon, its waters running merrily over the rocks on the river bed and flowing swiftly past the heart of Thranduil's kingdom in the Greenwood.

“I trust you are finding my halls to your standards,” he said, sitting down next to the man on the low, wide bench.

Bard looked over, picking up the wine with a short nod of gratitude.

“Aye, we are. Though I don't understand why elves and dwarves won't build banisters or railings.”

Thranduil's lips twitched in a smile.

“We do not need them, and our home is not often visited by menfolk – nor their children.”

Bard raised his eyebrows as he snorted. He sipped the wine, gaze returning to look over the dark trees and rushing river. A patrol walked smartly along the bank, silent and swift, their weapons and armour glinting in the light from the torches along the walls of the sprawling caves.

“No harm will come to them in my halls. Should they fall, my guards will catch them,” Thranduil said, softening his tone. “Our own children are also wont to play where they should not.”

“Hah. I always thought elves were born graceful.” Bard glanced over to him again, tapping his thumb against his goblet.

“More so than dwarves or men,” Thranduil replied, taking a mouthful of his own wine. “But not so much they do not slip or fall.”

Bard rubbed his fingers over his chin, resting his elbows on his knees. He was dressed in fine clothing, but his face was as hard with worry as ever. His hair was brushed and tied with a simple leather band, a circlet of slender sprigs of green leaves around his head – a gift, to wear in Thranduil's halls. Bard's children, sleeping now in their rooms, had been given ones made from spring flowers.

“I find it hard to imagine a baby elf, but I suppose you were one, and you have a son,” said Bard.

Another patrol walked by, in the opposite direction.

“I was, and I do,” Thranduil said, leaning back against the wall.

“And Tauriel?” asked Bard, placing his goblet back on the table.

Thranduil paused, eyes flicking over to the man.

“She is like a daughter, in kind. Though I had little hand in raising her beyond appointing her to Captain of the Guard, and making sure she was provided for by the kingdom.”

Bard nodded, linking his fingers together under his chin. “And you give her leave to remain in Erebor and Dale. For her love for the dwarf prince.”

“... I do,” Thranduil nodded. “And for information, too. She serves a use to me, there. It is not sentimentality that guides my actions.”

“Hmn,” hummed Bard, tipping his head up to look at the trees soaring above them.

The canopy was a blanket above their heads. Through the leaves Thranduil could see the twinkling starlight, too far and faint for a human's eyes to pick out. It was the second night Bard had been in the Greenwood. He’d been invited with his children to their spring feast, and subsequent celebrations.

Bard was, after all, the King of Dale. He seemed to have accepted his title and position, though the discomfort in his eyes was still all too clear to Thranduil. The mantle and crown fit him, and fit him well, but Bard wore them like chains.

“I cannot say I see a great variety in the faces of elves,” Bard said suddenly, taking the goblet from the table and turning it in his hands, “but from what I've seen of your son, I wonder if he doesn't take more after your wife.”

Thranduil's gaze flicked over to him. There was a flush to Bard's cheeks, and his eyes were glazed. His shoulders were hunched, and he was staring into his wine glass as if he was expecting it to answer him.

The man had been drinking at the feast. Thranduil had refilled his glass – once, twice? - himself, but Bard had drank slowly, and had a water jug at his side throughout the meal. Nevertheless, Dorwinion wine was stronger than the men's ale, and if Bard didn't drink often, it would have a stronger effect.

“He does,” Thranduil replied. There was no harm in humouring him. “Much to his chagrin.”

Bard looked up with a frown and a quizzical slant of his eyebrows.

“My wife was not considered especially beautiful by our standards,” said Thranduil, taking a sip of his wine. “She was exceptional at tactical planning and skilled with all manner of weapons, and commanded our armies under my father. We fought side by side in the War of the Last Alliance. Afterwards, as we suffered our losses, it was she who sought the route to this forest for our remaining kind to take, and the place for these very halls.”

Bard slowly nodded, pressing his knuckles to his lips in thought.

“Then,” he said, seeming to be choosing each word with consideration, “she was the brains, and you were the looks.”

Thranduil's short laugh startled even himself, Bard's surprised expression quickly overcome by a small grin.

“Perhaps it was so,” Thranduil said, fighting to keep the amusement from his tone. “Eiliantil saved my life many more times than I can count.”

Suddenly the feeling of being doused in ice-cold water rushed over him. His breath caught painfully in his throat, his muscles locking. The image of her laying on the ground – her golden hair matted with blood and trampled into the mud by orcish boots – crashed into him. He felt winded and his fingers shook against his glass. All he could see was her still body, eyes open and devoid of life. It felt as if steel fingers were closing around his throat, his vision blurring.

“How could she have been denied Valinor, after all the times she--...” Thranduil bit himself off, realising a moment too late the words were spilling from his own lips.

He put down his glass, standing swiftly.

“I will leave you to your wine. I--...”

Thranduil looked down at Bard's fingers, wrapped around his wrist and stopping him from leaving. His grip was strong. Warm.

“Etha fell,” the man said, his voice rough. His head was bowed, and strands of silver shone in his dark hair. Marks of age. Mortality. “She fell, down some wooden steps. She'd spent her life walking them, and one day she just... fell. There was no ice, no snow. No reason to fall. She never got up again. It was senseless. A senseless death. One minute she was there, the next she was--...” his voice cracked, and the woods were silent around them.

“... Gone,” Thranduil whispered. “Forever.”

Bard nodded and let go, clasping his hands together around his wine. Thranduil sat on the wooden bench again, taking his own glass and finishing the contents in one long swallow. Bard huffed with laughter, lifting his in a salute before doing the same, though he coughed slightly afterwards.

Silence fell between them, Bard leaning back against the stone walls of Thranduil's halls and gazing out over the river.

“Do elf babies cry?” he asked abruptly.

“Yes. As incessantly as human babies, and for many more years. Legolas spent a decade or so refusing to sleep unless he had a fistful of mine or Eiliantil's hair,” said Thranduil, a fond smile lifting the corners of his lips.

An image of Eiliantil's long hair – always more yellow than silver – wrapped around tiny fingers, her form curled around their child drifted into his mind and was gone again like a wisp of mist. The frost was thawing from his skin, but the wish for the warm caress of spring seemed like a dream of something long lost.

“Sigrid wouldn't sleep unless she had the kettle in the bed with her, when she was just starting to walk. The kettle,” Bard repeated, shaking his head and laughing. Then he yawned, clumsily trying to hide it behind his hand.

Thranduil cast one last look out over the river before he stood. He brushed his hands down the fine material of his silvery robes and gestured towards the door leading back into his halls.

“We have spent long enough out here, and you will find the celebrations wearisome tomorrow, if you face them with an aching head.”

Bard grunted, a noise Thranduil took to be agreement and climbed to his feet, swaying slightly. He made to pick up his glass, but Thranduil waved his hand.

“They will be brought inside. Come. I will see you safely to your rooms.”

“Is there something in these halls to make me unsafe?” Bard asked, rubbing at his face with both hands. As Thranduil began to make his way inside, he followed. His step was a little lopsided and uneven, enough so that Thranduil decided to walk beside him, rather than ahead.

“No one besides yourself, and our winding floors,” said Thranduil.

Bard nodded, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat as he yawned again, a flush still high on his cheeks. Thranduil would have water and plain bread sent to his room, as well as willow bark tea for the morning.

It wasn't a long walk to Bard's chambers, though he did stop to peer into the room where his children were asleep. Thranduil watched in silence as Bard crept in and pressed a kiss to their foreheads, the light from the torches outside giving him a golden glow.

How many thousands of years had it been since he had seen Legolas, laying in his bed as his little mind wandered the dream paths between this world and another?

“Are you alright?” Bard asked from right beside him, voice whisper-soft and the scent of wine on his breath.

“Yes.” Thranduil stood back from the door, letting the man walk past him and out onto the weaving path of the cavern. Bard's chambers were up a small flight of stairs, and Thranduil let him take the lead, following him up towards the bedroom and adjoining bathroom.

Just as Bard reached for the door, he stumbled.

Though Bard was nowhere near the ledge, and indeed it would have taken some dexterity for him to fall from it, Thranduil's gut plummeted, and he reached out to grab the back of Bard's coat. The leather creaked under his fingers. Bard was held up by the fabric bunching under his armpits, one of his legs folded beneath him and a breathless silence stretching between them.

“Be careful,” was all Thranduil said, his heart thumping in his chest as he lifted Bard easily back onto his feet.

Bard nodded, clearly a little shaken as he straightened his coat and brushed himself down. He opened the door, glancing back to Thranduil, a furrow set deeper in his lined brow.

“Aye. Good night.”

Thranduil inclined his head, turning on his heel and walking swiftly down the steps, listening for the sound of the door closing behind Bard. As he rounded the corner, intending to find another bottle of wine, he still hadn't heard it. With all the will he could muster, Thranduil didn't look behind him.

 

 

 

*

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_March 2nd_

 

 

 

The night was silent. No noise came from birds or creatures of the dark, and the moon shone down upon the still waters bordering the abandoned entrance. Spring had bloomed in Middle Earth, but on the shores of the lake lurking by the western halls of Moria, ice still clung to the stone.

Galadriel traced her finger over the inscription of glowing ithildin on the Doors of Durin.

_ Ennyn Durin aran Moria. Pedo mellon a minno. Im Narvi hain echant: Celebrimbor o Eregion teithant i thiw hin. _

The seven stars above the house of Durin glimmered, twinkling with the inner light only mithril held. She touched each of them reverently, and then the crown. Her fingers followed the sweeping branches of the two trees, catching at grooves in the rough rock.

A chill slid down her spine.

One by one the seven stars began to fade into the rock. Galadriel froze. It was as if a shadow had been cast over the moon, though the gentle light above her didn't falter. Like spilt ink seeping across pale cloth, the arches faded. The hammer and anvil followed, then the two trees, and then each letter of the inscription.

Something stirred in the darkness behind her.

When all that was left of the glowing carvings was the crown of Durin with the star above it and the larger, sharper star of the crest of Fëanor, Galadriel stepped back from the stone and turned around.

“Cousin,” she breathed.

Maglor, the last remaining son of Fëanor, stood opposite her upon the murky shores of the lake. The water seemed to shiver between them. His cloak writhed around his form, a chaotic storm framing skin slicked with oily mud from forgotten places beneath the earth. Golden hair which used to shine with all the glory of the sun was tarnished, tangled around twigs and crusted with dirty sand. Though he still stood tall, his shoulders were hunched, his head bowed.

“You do not belong here,” said Galadriel. Her words fell like snowflakes – soft and cold.

Maglor slowly uncurled his shoulders, raising his head until he stood at his full height. His clothes and armour were ragged, and black streaks ran down from his eyes like tear-tracks. They alone shone brightly, two gleaming blue beacons in a poisoned ocean.

He stepped forward, into the water.

No waves lapped at his feet. Instead the water shied away from his skin, frothing and bubbling where it was forced to touch him. Still he advanced, some innate power of his – or disgust of the world – allowing him to walk upon the surface as if it were solid stone.

A colossal shadow writhed under the water. Whatever slept beneath the dark had woken, but Galadriel could sense its fear as clearly as her own. It dared not lash out at the creature walking above it.

“Altáriel. Istalyë ita cestan.”

His voice was like the swallowed screams of drowning sailors. It echoed across the stone, as cruel as rip tides and whirlpools.

She had not been called Altáriel in a long time, and the name felt like a tug in her heart – a longing to go home, beyond the sea.

Galadriel exhaled sharply.

Not yet.

She stepped forward, holding out her hand. The bright pulse of her power flattened the surface of the water for a moment as it raced towards Maglor, but he stepped through it as if it was mist. His feet touched the stone of the banks.

“Yes, cousin,” she said. “I know what you seek. You are too late. Have you not suffered enough for it?”

“Itë samin i Silmaril, uan perperuva.”

“Time has healed your wounds, but not your heart,” said Galadriel. Her power thundered from her, illuminating her skin and whipping her hair around her shoulders.

She reached into her pocket and drew the Arkenstone from its depths. The moonlight hit the crystal as she held it out, beams of silver light diffusing through it to form a glow around its edges.

The jewel was beautiful, but it was no longer a Silmaril.

Maglor’s breath hissed from between his lips like sea water rushing through jagged rocks.

“Sa laia i Silmaril.”

Galadriel held it higher and towards the stars, turning the stone. Far above them in the night sky Eärendil's ship sailed, the Silmaril on his brow the brightest star in the darkness. A sliver of light touched the centre of the jewel in Galadriel's hand, and for a moment the Arkenstone burst into a thousand burning colours as it was filled by the radiant glory of the Morning Star.

Maglor arched, his hand reaching out even as his body twisted away from the jewel. But as quickly as the Arkenstone had filled with light, it emptied again.

Galadriel threw it towards him in a slow arc.

He caught it with both hands, his fingers melted stumps and slick with shimmering, thick oil.

The shard of Silmaril sat dull in Maglor's hands. Lifeless. He clutched it to his chest, head bowing over his hands. There was no burning, no bubbling or melting of flesh.

A howl of agony erupted from him, the sound too loud and too dreadful to come from his throat alone. A sudden wind crashed around them, and the waters of the lake behind him were pushed back.

“You are too late, Cousin,” said Galadriel again, the wind tearing at her clothing as the lake's surface thrashed with small, choppy waves, and the creature beneath twisted in terror. “The light is gone. Passed into a vessel you cannot take for your own.”

“Hiruvan i calá,” Maglor snarled. He tucked the empty stone into a fold in his cloak and drew from its depths a tarnished blade, long and cruel in the moonlight. “Uan ni pustauvalyë, Altáriel.”

Galadriel stepped forwards, splaying her fingers wide in front of her. The wind dropped, the waters of the lake fell still, and the rusted sword in Maglor's hands crumbled into dust.

“You are weak, Cousin. Time and suffering have changed you, but not so the Lady of Lórien.”

Maglor snarled, dropping the empty hilt to the ground.

“Lelyauvan ana i oronissë,” he hissed. “Var teluvalyë enya cuila?”

Galadriel exhaled and slowly brought her hand back down to her side.

Maglor was weak, a husk of who he had once been. But her own powers were also greatly diminished. They were two candle stumps by an open window, their flames spluttering and low. A single breath could extinguish either.

“No, Cousin. You will not find your death at the end of my blade, nor by any weapon of the elves. If the long dark of Moria and the creature of flame do not take you, then you will forfeit your life to the axes of the dwarves, should you continue this.”

Tears dripped down Maglor's hollowed cheeks, thick and glistening in the moonlight. They cut through the dark streaks on his skin.

“Uan cile enya ambara,” he whispered. “Gwestanë i vandá.”

A soft, sad smile touched the corners of Galadriel's lips as she stepped slowly to the side.

“And you are bound to that oath. May whatever end lays in wait for you be swift, Cousin. You have suffered enough. Farewell. We shall not meet again, last of the seven sons.”

Maglor moved to the door, the last of the inscriptions fading though he cast no shadow over them. He placed his hand over the star of Fëanor and murmured the password. They swung open, and he was swallowed by the gloom.

Galadriel didn't turn until the doors had closed again, her silent tears wet on her cheeks.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_March 6th_

 

 

Thorin had never possessed a good slate-stare. His expression betrayed his feelings all too easily. Dís had been the politician really, able to keep her face utterly blank no matter how she felt. Had Thorin an ounce of her ability, he would have been able to pretend there was nothing unusual about his walk through the forges. He'd have been able to pretend their walk was just that: a walk. An inspection of the ongoing repairs, and the rebuilding of Erebor as a mighty kingdom.

The walk was not, however, _just_ a walk.

He glanced at his sister, her arm in his as they moved between the glowing furnaces at a slow pace. Though his stomach was twisting with nerves, the heat from the forges and the sounds of metal being worked were like soothing balms, a music he had heard since before he'd woken in these halls. The sharp scent of hot iron washed over him as they passed by a group of dwarves working on something glowing white-hot, and he felt his pulse slow.

How many decades had he spent, watching his family hone their craft? He'd shaped his very first piece of metal here, a bracelet for his mother, in these very halls. His father had kept one hand on his back the whole time, murmuring words of encouragement.

Dís gave his arm a squeeze, and Thorin's gaze snapped to the figure approaching them.

Bilbo Baggins. He was dressed in finery – though Thorin doubted many of the dwarves would know that. After much debate with Balin, Bilbo had insisted on doing this in his own hobbitsh clothing. Everyone knew he wasn't a dwarf, Bilbo had pointed out. Why dress as one? Wasn't the point to be different, yet likeable?

The hobbit was wearing a new, cream-coloured shirt and trousers dyed the green of fir trees. Thorin could see the hair on his feet had been brushed, gently oiled, and then combed. His waistcoat was a blend of gentle greens and yellows, like sunlight through foliage, and his cravat almost the same shade as his trousers.

He looked like spring, and the glimpses of the Shire Thorin remembered as they'd travelled through it.

The noise and bustle of the forges turned from one of general to-ing and fro-ing to one of everyone trying very hard to pretend they weren't craning their necks for a look or swivelling their heads to catch a word or two.

“Bilbo,” said Thorin, inclining his head. His attempt at keeping his expression neutral was definitely failing. He could feel the brush of a smile tugging the corners of his lips. “I did not think to see you here.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo replied, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking onto his heels. “I'm glad to have found you. And Lady Dís,” he added, nodding at her, “A pleasure, as always.”

Thorin tried to ignore the crowd gathering around them. They'd practised this. The crowd was good, and Dís' hand on his arm was a small comfort.

“Master Bilbo,” she smiled. “I can only agree. What brings you to the forges this afternoon? Have you an interest in smithing?”

“Oh, certainly!” Bilbo said, as naturally and as easily as if he hadn't said it a hundred times in Thorin's chambers, Balin making notes on the script. “The craftsmanship of the dwarves is truly a sight to behold, in my opinion. And how lucky I've been to be able to see all this.”

A pleased murmur rose from the crowd, and Thorin could see several dwarves nodding to each other in approval. It was no secret how Men, Elves, and even Shirefolk turned their noses up at dwarven craft nowadays. He had seen first-hand how they would declare their craft worthless, simply to avoid paying a fair price. As had many of the dwarves here.

“But,” said Bilbo, drawing himself up straighter and sticking out his chest. “That's not why I'm here today. No, I'm here on a rather personal errand, you see.”

“And what would that be?” asked Thorin, remembering his line just in time.

“I should like to sing to you, if I may.”

The crowd buzzed with excitement. Bilbo fixed his eyes on Thorin's, hands still clasped behind him and chest still puffed out. He looked to be brimming with confidence, but Thorin knew him better. Bilbo's smile was fixed, and he could see the effort it took Bilbo to keep his gaze steady.

“And what would you like to sing to me?” Thorin tried to keep his voice gentle. Soothing. If Bilbo lost his nerve now, it would reflect badly on the both of them. However, if Bilbo was having second thoughts, if he was feeling coerced into this--...

Dís' hand at his elbow stopped him from taking a step forward as a rush of cold slid down his spine.

“I should like to sing a song I've written for you,” Bilbo said suddenly, putting his hands on his hips as he broke away from Balin's script. “I've had an inkling of it in my head since Rivendell, you know. Words, here and there. Little ideas. Maybe you'll recognise a line or two.”

Thorin was silent for a second, confusion breaking through his concern.

“You did sing a lot on the Quest, and I cannot profess to remember each line,” he said. Bilbo was nowhere near the words Balin had carefully planned. He was supposed to be singing by now.

A ripple of laughter ran around the crowd. Bilbo tucked his thumbs into his the pockets of his waistcoat, settling back onto his feet with an easy smile.

“I wanted to write you something with a hobbitish melody, but it wouldn't have meant much to you. I thought about trying to write something dwarvish, too,” he added, turning a little to the crowd, “but as wonderful as dwarves are, I'm certainly not one, and it wouldn't be right for me to imitate your wonderful music.”

The crowd laughed again, but it was tinged with warmth. Bilbo's words were clever, Thorin realised. His clothing, his bright and easy speech, they were all terribly hobbitish. Odd, certainly, lit by the glow of dwarven forges underground, and yet he was at ease. Comfortable. Even endearing. He was doing exactly what Balin had wanted him to do.

“And before you ask, no, it's not elvish, either,” Bilbo said with a wink. “Nevertheless, I think you'll recognise the tune. If I may?”

“Please,” said Thorin.

They were back on track, and a sudden silence fell over the crowd. The only sound was the whooshing air from the fires, and the single clang of one dwarf in a far corner who hadn't seemed to notice what was going on. Bilbo shot the corner a sharp look before clearing his throat regardless.

Then he began to sing.

[ _“The forge sits silent, cold and grey_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _I wandered far and lost my way._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _With aching feet and frightened hands_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _I tread weary over darkened lands._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)

[ _The night falls dark, so black and thick,_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _and blood has stained my walking stick._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _No longer, no longer can I sleep_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _When in my mind the shadows creep._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)

[ _The forge sits silent, cool and grey,_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _I wandered far and lost my way._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _But lo, a yearning ember takes,_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _and burning fire it makes._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)

[ _The night has come dark, it's blue and thick,_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _and blood has stained my walking stick._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _No wonder, no wonder I'm drawn so near,_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _the fire it soothes my fear._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)

[ _The forge burns softly, warm and grey,_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _I wandered far and lost my way._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _And now the flames are leaping high,_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _lighting up the endless sky._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)

[ _The night comes slowly, dim and thick,_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _and blood has stained my walking stick._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _Burn sweetly, oh, burn sweetly now!_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _Chase the terror from my brow!_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)

[ _The forge burns brightly, hot and grey,_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _I wandered far and found my way._ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _And suddenly the flame completes me,_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)  
[ _Oh! Flame suddenly completes me.”_ ](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent)

Thorin couldn't have steeled his expression had he tried. He'd heard the song a hundred times, had helped Bilbo choose some of the words – even suggested the repetition of the final line, in a dwarven style. None of it had prepared him for hearing it sung aloud in such a setting.

It felt real. Like the meal had to Bilbo.

He barely heard the thundering applause from the gathered crowd as he wrapped his arms around Bilbo's shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“That's not in the script,” Bilbo whispered, a laugh in his tone. “Balin will scold us both, now.”

Bilbo's hands were warm on his back, and he kept his own fingers on the hobbit's elbows as he drew away. He was sure he'd feel suitably embarrassed by his actions later, but for the first time in decades, he felt truly weightless. There was no shadow on his soul, no malice lying in wait, and the only words in his head were those of Bilbo's song.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough. “I know the tune. An old one, from Dale.” He might as well try and salvage what little was left of Balin's script as he gathered himself.

“Quite,” said Bilbo with a nod. “We've some songs like that, and there are dwarven aspects as well. In my opinion,” he added again, “It's a nice mix.”

Thorin finally let go completely, taking a half step back from Bilbo.

“A fine choice of tune. Thank you. It is gladly accepted.”

His words prompted another round of clapping and cheering from the crowd. They began to disperse, snatches of the tune being hummed as they went to their work and gave their king a few moments with the hobbit.

The courting song had been approved, and the courtship would continue – with the added endorsement from his people. They had done it. Bilbo smiled warmly, looking pleased with himself.

Guilt from his lie tugged suddenly at his belly. His people were falling for the tale he was spinning, and if he could beguile them into believing this, could he not push them into believing other lies? Worse lies. Lies around his sanity, his ability to rule, his character. Lies he, too, might believe.

Dís' hand was gentle on his arm.

“You are worrying, nadad. There is no cause to, even if you don't yet see it.”

“You sound like an elf, speaking in riddles,” Thorin said lowly. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but from the worried look Bilbo had given him, he was failing. The crowd had mostly gone back to doing what they had been doing before, but a few were still openly watching the three of them. “I should leave. I will return to my rooms. To write my response.”

The forges felt too small, and a sudden rush of steam to his left seemed to take the shape of a massive body, scaly and malevolent.

“Plenty of time for that,” said Bilbo brightly. His words cut through the encroaching dark like torchlight. “I'd like to see how the repairs outside the mountain are going. Like the ones on the bridge over the River Running. Won't you come with me? I'd enjoy a spot of company.”

“It is not wise. I have many things to do, in preparation,” he replied. Dís' hands, comforting just a moment before, now felt stifling.

“It can wait. Come with me. Please?” Bilbo said, his voice quietening.

Thorin inhaled sharply through his teeth, jaw clenched. Then he nodded, exhaling a long, slow breath. He would not make a scene here, and flee from this place.

“I will go and tell the others you're taking a walk,” Dís said gently, drawing back from Thorin and striding off.

Bilbo's lips quirked into a smile and he tilted his head towards the doors as she left. Thorin fell into step beside him, a lingering sense of impending doom weighing on his shoulders.

“Well, I think that went very well. I nearly skipped a line, you know, remembered it just at the last minute! But that's what you get for thinking you know something just because you wrote the damn thing. I think I liked it better with your harp accompaniment, though. My voice wasn't made to fill halls like this. I'm much better around a little campfire, really, but we do what we can with what we have, hmn? My mother always used to say: Bilbo, she'd say, there's no point in ignoring what you're holding while wishing for what you're not. I should be grateful just to have managed to sing the right notes.”

“You sang well,” Thorin said, the hallways passing by him in a blur.

He felt like someone had taken him beneath the skin and twisted, ever so slightly. But Bilbo's chatter was easy to listen to, and some of the fright which had descended on him was slipping away.

“Very kind of you to say so, thank you. Now my cousin Drogo, there's a voice! I watched him sing a whole flock of doves down from a tree, once.”

“You said it was a pigeon, and he'd sung it to sleep in boredom.”

Bilbo laughed brightly, waving his hands.

“Well, boredom and reverence are the same thing, really. As are doves and pigeons. Both make a nice stew. Now, if I were to see someone about making a little plot for a spot of gardening, who should I speak to? I'd hate to be digging in someone else's patch. You know, my cousin three times removed on my mother's side, she once spent a whole spring preparing a new garden on the other side of her smial, only to find it belonged to her uncle's wife's brother – who'd neglected to mention it to her until she was done with all the work! The nerve. Well, let me tell you what she did, when she realised he wasn't going to do the decent thing and let her have it for a year or two.”

Hours later, and after a walk almost halfway to Dale and back, the clinging unease had fallen away from Thorin. Not even Balin's pointed talk about how public relations had to be handled carefully, hence why scripts were written and subsequently followed, was enough to spoil his re-emerging good mood by supper time.

He went to sleep with Bilbo's courting song on his lips, and dreamed of little rolling hills dappled in sunlight.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_March 10th_

 

 

“I'll place ten gold coins on it,” said Tauriel. “And if I lose, I’ll pay them to you in front of whomever you choose.”

Kíli propped his chin up on her stomach, a thoughtful expression on his face. She curled her fingers through his long hair, a smile touching the corners of her lips. They were laying on her bed – his too small for her to fit on without her feet hanging off the end. He was dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, his boots placed on the floor. In turn, she had put aside her thick leathers in favour of a long brown tunic and breeches that went down to her knee.

It was late, and the little candle lamps placed beside her bed glowed with warm light. Kíli's weight over her abdomen and legs was comforting as he lay beside her, one arm slung over her hips.

“Ten gold coins is a lot of money for an elf,” he said seriously. “Not so much for a Prince of Erebor. You must have some faith in this bet.”

Tauriel laughed, tracing her fingers down the nape of his neck. She crossed her ankles, the pillows behind her shoulders letting her look down at him.

“I know love when I see it, meleth nin. It blooms between your uncle and Bilbo.”

“Ah, but you don't know my uncle! And I've known Bilbo longer than you, too. He told me himself: he and Thorin are just friends. Good friends, granted, but nothing more. I'll take you up on your bet,” he grinned, reaching out to shake her hand. “Ten gold coins in front of the party of the winner's choosing, either way. When's the deadline?”

Tauriel linked her fingers with his, bringing his hand up so she could press a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

“One year from now,” she said.

Kíli nodded, brushing his fingertips against her cheek.

“Alright, one year from now. I'll write it down before we forget the date.”

“I have an excellent memory,” Tauriel said, arching her eyebrow. Kíli's smile turned mischievous, and he brought her hand down to mimic her kisses to his knuckles.

“Amralê, you don't remember how old you are except to the nearest century without consulting your book. You thought we'd gone hunting two years ago, when it was just two months ago,” he laughed, peppering her fingers and palm with kisses.

She huffed, gently flicking Kíli's nose.

“When you have lived as many years as I have, they start to blur together. My king is far worse than I.”

“I'll have to test that, somehow,” Kíli said, resting his head more comfortably on her stomach again. “But you know... with Thorin marrying Bilbo... it opens mines, doesn't it?”

Tauriel frowned. From what she'd seen, Erebor had enough mines.

“Does it? Will your kind begin mining in Erebor again? Did you not tell me Erebor was a crafting kingdom, more so than mining?”

Kíli's grip on her side tightened as he laughed, twisting to look at her face.

“It's an expression, amralê. It means new things will become available.”

“Oh,” she murmured, a touch of heat warming her cheeks.

Westron wasn't her first language. Not even her second, for she had learned the languages of birds and beasts long before those of menfolk. Thranduil himself had taught her Westron, along with Legolas, when they began to travel to the edges of the forest, and then further for trade with Dale.

But until the ragged pack of thirteen dwarves (and one invisible hobbit she'd learned about later) had attempted to pass through the Greenwood, she'd only used it when she'd wanted to say something to Legolas without her fellow elves understanding.

“I mean,” Kíli continued, “a dwarf is marrying a hobbit... and a hobbit's just like a tiny elf, sort of, isn't it? With bigger feet and more eating, but certainly not a dwarf!”

Tauriel hummed a noise she hoped was neither encouraging nor discouraging. Hobbits, in her opinion, were nothing like elves – save they had a love for all that grew. She combed her fingers through Kíli's hair again, unknotting the tangles he seemed to gain as fast as she eased them out.

“And Thorin's the _king_. If he's allowed to marry a hobbit, why, any dwarf should be allowed to marry a hobbit. And if any dwarf is allowed to marry a hobbit, it stands to reason that any dwarf is allowed to marry an elf. Don't you think?” he said, looking up at her.

His eyes, wide and hopeful, made her chest tighten. She sat up more and then leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips.

“It stands to reason in your eyes, meleth nin, and my own. But not in the eyes of your kind, nor mine. Elves have few thoughts of what dwarves may do with hobbits, but many of my placement here, and the rumours around us. Though,” she added, stealing another kiss from his mouth, “I suppose they aren't rumours.”

Kíli's hands on her cheeks were gentle as he stilled her movements.

“I'm not ashamed of my love,” he said, voice low.

“Nor am I,” she replied. Their noses brushed, his face upside down underneath hers.

“And I'm not afraid, either. I love you. If I have to live somewhere else to be with you, then I will.” His voice didn't waver, but Tauriel could see the touch of melancholy in his eyes.

He had spent so many years of his life trying to impress his people, lamenting his lack of beard and the leanness of his body. To fall in love with her, an elf, was another mark of his uniqueness. She pushed against his hands to brush another kiss against his lips.

“As will I, as I am,” she said with a smile. “Besides, I already consider us married, in the ways of elves.”

Kíli laughed, wriggling so he could sit up – only to then pull her down beside him, shoulder to shoulder.

“And by your standards we were married either on the shores of Esgaroth with the wounded, sick, and screaming men around us, though you didn't say you loved me outloud, so I still maintain that doesn't count. Or,” he continued before she could interrupt, “we were married when Bolg got his good shot in, and I was unconscious and didn't _hear_ your declaration of love, which _definitely_ doesn't count.”

“But you knew, did you not?” Tauriel laughed, unable to stop the grin tugging at her lips.

Kíli took both her hands in his and pulled one to rest around his waist, linking their fingers together with the other.

“Amralê, if we were married the first time I knew you felt something for me and I knew I felt something for you, we'd have been wed in Thranduil's dungeons with iron bars between us.”

She laughed louder, shaking her head fondly and digging her fingers into his side until he squirmed and yelped.

“No ceremony could explain my love for you, nor deepen it,” Tauriel said when Kíli's form had relaxed again.

“I know. But I want us to get married, one day. It's important. To me,” he added, dropping his gaze from her eyes.

Tauriel leaned in, kissing his forehead.

“Then it is important to me, meleth nin. We shall be married in the way of dwarves, one day.”

Though when that day would come, she did not know. Only select members of the Company seemed to tolerate her presence, and it felt like it was mostly for Kíli's sake. How could they expect them, and then the rest of the dwarves, to accept or even entertain the idea of marriage between them? Her kind all but ignored her, save in whispers and murmurs. She was Tauriel Madhandil. Banished by her own king for defying his orders, deserting her home, and running after a dwarf.

But, she thought as Kíli beamed at her, his eyes crinkling and her heart jumping with love, she was also Tauriel Innor. She was pardoned, and the king had given her his blessing.

“I'll use the ten gold coins I'll win from you to buy you a flower wreath for our wedding,” she said, trying to keep her face poised.

Kíli's laughter made the bed shake, and her stoic expression cracked into a wide smile as she wrapped her arms around his chest and curled her body around his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Someone reported my fics on Ao3 - This is why!](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com/post/148307664796/so-someone-reported-me-on-ao3)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> If you or anyone you know shows symptoms of what's been detailed in this chapter, you can find a [good list of hotlines here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/post/21961172409/accepting-help-is-brave-hotlinescrisis-lines), as well as [a good list of chatrooms here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/chatrooms). 
> 
> You can find [me](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com), [Mith](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com), and [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com) all on tumblr! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sending them a message, too! 
> 
> If you enjoyed the song, please let [Dets](http://determamfidd.tumblr.com) know :D!
> 
> The amount of work these amazing people put in as betas can never be measured. They dedicate so much time and effort, and I'm so grateful for their insight and work.
> 
> [The Forge Sits Silent](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent).  
> [Youtube video of 'Ibinê Mim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4).  
> [Azhâr's soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari).
> 
> List of Khuzdul, Quenya, and Sindarin used in order of appearance:  
> Umral - One / One-ness (Literally: greatest love)  
> Taur Celon - Forest River  
> Ennyn Durin aran Moria. Pedo mellon a minno. Im Narvi hain echant: Celebrimbor o Eregion teithant i thiw hin - The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter. I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs  
> Altáriel. Istalyë ita cestan - Galadriel. You know what I seek  
> Itë samin i Silmaril, uan perperuva - If I have the Silmaril, I will not suffer  
> Sa laia i Silmaril - That is not the Silmaril  
> Hiruvan i calá - I will find the light  
> Uan ni pustauvalyë, Altáriel - You will not stop me, Galadriel  
> Lelyauvan ana i oronissë - I will go to the mountain  
> Var teluvalyë enya cuila - Or will you end my life  
> Uan cile enya ambara - I do not choose my fate  
> Gwestanë i vandá - I swore an oath  
> Nadad - Brother  
> Meleth nin - My love  
> Amralê - My love  
> Madhandil - Lover of mud  
> Innor - Fireheart


	13. Alzani

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit it's been a while. I'm so sorry! I'm finishing up a degree and things got hectic healthwise as well. Once again, I just wanted to thank you all for your continued support! We're getting into some fun times here, but do keep in mind the potential trigger warnings for mental health symptoms and so on.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Please make sure to go back a few chapters to check out the amazing art by [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), [Pop](http://www.poplitealqueen.tumblr.com) and [Quel](http://www.tosquinha.tumblr.com), as well as the amazing picture in this chapter by Ruto!!!
> 
> And to my (now) THREE betas who put in a simply unbelievable amount of work, [Tea](http://mcmanatea.tumblr.com), [Mith](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com) and [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), I really couldn't do any of this without your help. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> [Please come say hi to me on Tumblr!](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> I'd also like to add some potential trigger warnings on this chapter, to do with anxiety, depression, and panic attacks. Please be aware symptoms of these are explored in the following chapters.

 

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_March 13th_

 

 

Green fields with little hills rolled away beneath Thorin's feet, and the air was laden with bird song. The sun shone down brightly, sending warmth curling through his limbs. He lifted his hands and rubbed at his stinging eyes. The light was too bright, and he felt removed from his body, as if he was bigger than his skin could contain.

“Well. This is nice, isn't it?”

“Bilbo...?” Thorin croaked. His voice was ragged, squeezed from a too-narrow throat. He turned on his heel, but all he could pick out was hazy green, and the bobbing heads of flowers he'd never seen the like of before.

Laughter frolicked around him, along with a voice he didn't recognise.

“Very nice indeed! And we've both been to much worse places.”

While he couldn't put a face to the voice, there was no mistaking when a hobbit was speaking.

“Bilbo,” he said again, louder and with a touch of desperation. The sunlight brightened until he had to squeeze his eyes closed, pressing his palms over his face. His skin burned hot.

When he opened them again he was standing in the middle of a wide square marble platform, intricately carved with swirling shapes. The edge in front dropped away into darkness, the one behind rising as tall as a mountain. Two marble walls towered from the edges beside him.

“Bilbo?” he called, his voice echoing. He was in a sprawling dusky chamber, and he could make out the vague shape of massive pillars in the distance, gentle light filtering through them.

Thorin walked to the edge of the platform and looked down. There was a floor below him, and though it was too far for his eyes to make out clearly, he could see it was inlaid with many colours and patterns.

A throne, he realised. He was standing on the seat of a gigantic throne.

Then something changed in the air behind him. The weight of it shifted, and he turned with a rising wave of terror. Something stood beside the throne, some being made of cloud and breath and flocks of birds. He couldn't see its edges, and yet he could see a shape to it. There was some suggestion of limbs and face, though as he tried to pinpoint features they shifted and smoothed into a tumbling chaos of billowing cloud, and the quick-silver twist of birds in flight.

Thorin staggered backwards. His stomach lurched as his foot missed stone, and he tumbled off the marble edge and into the air with a horrified cry.

Before he could register the sensation of plummeting from such a height, he hit the floor as if he'd done nothing but tripped over his own foot on a flat surface and fallen on his behind. Thorin gasped for breath, looking up.

The throne was a normal height. Smaller than his own in Erebor, even, and an old dwarf sat upon it. Their thick, full beard and long hair had patches of dark grey brushed through the white strands, and their brown eyes twinkled with something Thorin could only call curiosity. The dwarf was dressed in clothes of sky blue and white, and had no armour or weapons.

“Who are you...?” asked Thorin, his hands braced against the floor, not moving to kneel or stand.

The dwarf opened their mouth, their lips moving. But all Thorin could hear was the whistle of wind, and the calls of birds.

“I don't understand,” said Thorin, his voice plaintive. He didn't know where this place was, but he knew he wasn't supposed to be here.

A smile touched the corners of the old dwarf's lips. Then he rose from the throne, and walked over to where Thorin remained frozen on the floor.

The moment the old dwarf’s gnarled, wizened hand touched his forehead, Thorin woke with a jolt and a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. A large, black raven perched on the footboard cawed loudly, and Thorin let out a short, sharp cry of alarm.

Then the bird cocked its head and ruffled its feathers.

“He is coming,” it croaked.

Before Thorin could open his mouth to respond the raven launched itself from the footboard and flew out the open door of his bedroom.

Thorin leaped from his bed, not stopping to tug anything over his night tunic or pull on his boots. He ran after the flash of obsidian feathers with his feet pounding against the cold stone floor. Through his bedroom and his study, through the sitting room and out into the main corridor. As he rushed out the door to his chambers he slammed into Dwalin, sending a tray of hot coffee and bread rolls flying into the air and both of them sprawling to the floor.

“Mahal, Thorin!” Dwalin barked, fright and concern in his voice. “What in Mahal's name--”

“--The raven,” gasped Thorin, scrambling to his feet. “Where did it go?”

“Ra--... What raven?” asked Dwalin, standing again and grabbing Thorin's arm. “Thorin, there's no raven.”

Thorin's pounding heart echoed in his ears, and he felt suddenly dizzy.

“It just flew out the door,” he said. “It was on the foot of my bed. It said, 'He is coming', and then flew out the room, just now.”

“There was no raven. I've had a clear view of your door. No raven came from your chambers.” Dwalin's words were heavy with worry, and Thorin let himself be steered into his sitting room and gently pushed to sit on one of the armchairs.

There was a tremble in his fingers, and he couldn't meet Dwalin's eyes.

“I know what I saw,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction even to his own ears.

Dwalin hesitated before he nodded, closing the door out onto the corridor and drawing his axe. Then he went through to the bedroom, and Thorin could hear him moving and shuffling things, searching for the raven.

But he wouldn't find it. Thorin gripped the armrests of the chair and closed his eyes. That raven, he realised, had not been part of this world, but some other.

And something was coming for him.

 

 

*

 

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_March 20th_

 

 

“No, it can't be one per table, don't be ridiculous,” said Bilbo, a hand on his hip as he jabbed his finger at the detailed seating plan. “These tables seat forty dwarves each, and you want to put a single arrangement in the middle? Goodness knows we've paid enough for the flowers from Mirkwood, it would be a waste to just plonk one big display on each table. Besides,” Bilbo continued as Thorin opened his mouth, “if there's only one per table, that one is going to be so big a couple of poor sods are stuck with a view of nothing but petals and greenery. Four small ones per table. That's the way to do it.”

Thorin closed his mouth. He knew how to pick his battles, and this wasn't one he'd win, so he simply nodded his head and drew a red line under a smattering of runes, making his own note underneath. Four small displays per table. He took a sip of the dark coffee in his mug, sitting at the wide desk in Bilbo's chambers, the hobbit's keen eyes roaming over the wedding plans.

“Now,” Bilbo said, pulling over another few sheaves of parchment. “The music. I’ve been thinking about that great big ballad.”

“The ballad of the quest, whatever title it may now hold, is non-negotiable,” said Thorin, pointing his quill to the hour or two put aside for it. Final rehearsals were still on-going, and verses were being added or removed each day. It would be another week or so before they knew exactly how long it would be.

Bilbo's eyes narrowed. Thorin had a feeling 'non-negotiable' was about to be negotiated.

But before either of them could speak again, the door opened and Balin stepped into the room without knocking or calling, looking flustered.

“Thorin, someone is here and is asking for you,” he said, his face grave. “You had best come, and quickly.”

“Who is it?” Thorin asked, rising to his feet and pushing his chair back. He remembered, suddenly, the mysterious raven from a week ago, and its ominous message. Dread bloomed deep in his gut. He gripped the edge of the table. “Who has come? What manner of creature?”

Balin opened his mouth and closed it again, a strange, almost far-away look on his face. Thorin felt Bilbo's arm brush his.

“A dwarf,” Balin finally said. “An old dwarf, who says he has been searching for you. He's dressed in rags, he’s unkempt, his skin hidden under mud, and he is missing the ends of his fingers.” Balin's gazed drilled into his, and Thorin's heart began to pound hard against his ribs. “His eyes are bright blue.”

Thorin felt his knees wobble and then lock.

“Father...?” he whispered, barely registering Bilbo's hand gripping his forearm.

“I do not know,” said Balin quickly, shaking his head as if he was shaking off a dream. “But you had best come, and quickly. Dwalin's with him in one of the welcoming chambers, but stories are spreading already through the mountain. Many saw his arrival.”

Thorin nodded, taking a step forward. Bilbo's hand on his arm stopped him, and he turned to look at the hobbit.

“Wait,” Bilbo said, “wait. Gandalf said he died, Thorin. He saw it himself, in Dol Guldur. Something's not right here.”

Images of a gigantic throne and an old, wizened dwarf flashed through Thorin's mind, echoing the raven's warning, but Balin spoke before he could.

“Did we not think the same of Thorin?”

Bilbo's jaw snapped shut with an audible click, a shadow brushing over his features. His grip wavered, but Thorin pressed his own fingers to Bilbo's forearm, looking back to Balin.

“... We must proceed with caution,” he said. Though he was speaking and could hear his own voice, he felt detached from the words. Like they were being spoken by someone else, somewhere else. “We do not know what magic has brought him back, if it is him.”

“Yes. Good idea,” Bilbo nodded and stepped away, hurrying off into a side room.

Thorin turned, swinging his cloak around his shoulders and clasping Orcrist to his side. He raked his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face before he glanced at Balin.

“... Do you believe it is him...?” he asked, his voice quieter than he'd expected.

“Laddie, if I knew, I'd tell you,” replied Balin. He rubbed his gloved hand over his face, suddenly looking decades older as shadows dipped into the lines on his skin. “He seems to be the right age, and looks how the wizard said Thráin looked. He is missing the ends of his fingers, but his eyes are sharp.”

Thorin nodded. If it was his father... If, after all this time, he had returned...

Bilbo reappeared, a coat wrapped tightly around him and Sting at his side. He shrugged when he saw Thorin glance at it, nose twitching as he sniffed.

“I thought I'd better try and look a little impressive, if I'm potentially meeting an in-law. First impressions, and all that.”

A smile touched Thorin's lips. How different was this hobbit before him from the one who'd opened the round green door marked by Gandalf’s glowing rune, all those months ago? 'Axe or sword', he'd asked him, and the funny, tubby little creature had made some joke about conkers.

But here he stood now, a dwarven coat around his shoulders, and an elven blade at his hip.

The sound of Balin's boots scraping against the stone jarred Thorin back, a fresh wave of dread rolling over him. If this mysterious dwarf was his father, he'd be much changed.

Thorin nodded his head, expression turning grim.

The three of them hurried through the corridors to the sound of ringing iron boots. Thorin matched his breathing to his steps, keeping his pace as steady and even as he could as they wound through the mountain, avoiding the main walkways and the crowds.

Time slowed to nothing, and yet raced by faster than he could understand. Then, after an eternity and barely a breath, Balin was pushing open a small, wooden door.

The stench hit him like a solid punch on the nose. Thorin recoiled, Bilbo doing the same. Something stank like old fish and the festering muck of some creature long decayed. The reek of scorched hair and rusted metal enveloped him, as thick as fog. Thorin's stomach rolled and he gripped the door frame, trying not to retch.

Sitting on a stone chair in the middle of the room was an old dwarf. His clothes were tattered rags, a filthy cloak hanging from his shoulders, and his skin was coated with mud. Any tattoos, like the ones Thráin had, would be hidden under all the dirt. His beard and hair were scraggly, matted and lank. He was shrivelled, and all his fingers were missing past the first knuckle, palms resting on his knees. His feet were bare, nails curled like claws.

Two bright blue eyes flicked up, boring into Thorin’s with a piercing stare.

Thorin's mouth went dry, ribs constricting like iron bands, but he pushed himself away from the door and began to walk towards the dwarf. Dwalin shifted from the wall he was leaning against, one hand resting on the handle of his axe.

“Thorin Oakenshield. Heir of Durin,” the old dwarf croaked. His words sounded wet, and spittle bubbled at his lips.

Thorin knew the shape of his father’s face like he knew his own. He knew the crooks in his wide nose, the rise of his cheeks. The shape of his brow, his mouth, his chin. Above all, he knew the way his eyes shone with warmth whenever he looked at his pebbles.

This was not his father.

“Who are you? Why have you come here?” he asked, forcing the words out past the fist wrapped around his lungs. Disappointment battered at him like a storm, and he cursed himself for daring to hope. His father was dead. Gandalf had seen it.

This was some poor dwarf, lost to the wilderness. Perhaps a criminal from another mountain range, or an escaped prisoner from some orcish dungeon. Thorin tried to reach for calm, for compassion.

“I have something of yours. You have something of mine,” the dwarf said, not moving on his chair. His eyes were fixed solely on Thorin's own, ignoring Balin and Dwalin, both of whom had silently drawn their weapons.

Thorin frowned.

“What range do you call home? What is your name?” he asked. Had he come for treasure? Some relic in the treasury?

A chill slid down Thorin’s spine, and once more the raven’s words flitted through his mind.

Hadn’t that elf said the same thing, all those months ago?

The dwarf reached into the folds of his cloak and Thorin took a half step back, hand flying to the handle of Orcrist as alarm exploded through him.

But whatever the dwarf drew from inside his cloak was small enough to conceal in his hand, and Thorin gestured for Balin and Dwalin to lower their weapons. A curious serenity draped over him. He felt like whatever was about to happen had been set in motion thousands of years ago, that he was a single boulder in a rock-slide, and no move he made could alter the course of the next few moments.

“What is that?” he asked, voice distant. Dizziness trailed a lazy circle around the inside of his skull, and he could suddenly smell fresh grass between the reek of rot. White spots fizzled around the edges of his vision.

The old dwarf slowly held out a crystal, colourless and smooth.

Thorin felt like he'd seen it before, but he couldn't recall when, or where.

“And now,” the dwarf said, “for that which is mine.”

The dwarf leapt like a shadow chasing an extinguished flame, his limbs twisting and elongating. The skin of his face slipped and slithered, forming something almost elf-like, save for the snarling fury contorting his features.

Orcrist sank into the creature's abdomen at the same time it smashed the rock against Thorin's brow, its other spindly hand – fingers still missing – tangled into the back of his hair to hold him still. Thorin gasped for air, arms shaking from the quick draw and the brutal slam of steel into flesh.

The yells from Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo muffled abruptly, like he'd been plunged underwater, and white light sparked like fireworks across his vision. His eyes stung and watered, tears dripping down his cheeks almost instantly. The stench of decay and cut grass clashed against each other.

Smoke began to pour from the creature where it was touching him, its mouth dropping open in a screech matched only by the shout driven from Thorin's own lungs. He twisted Orcrist up, wrenching the blade in a killing strike meant to sever spine and gut.

All he could see was white light, and two bright blue eyes burning with rage.

But as wetness dripped down his blade, over his hands and onto the floor, those eyes softened. The fury bled out, replaced by an exhaustion Thorin recognised as well as if he'd been looking into a mirror. A wave of misery washed over his shock, a pang of unnamed understanding left in its wake. The scent of crisp apples overpowered the rot, and Thorin breathed in the clean air.

Exhaustion dimmed to relief in those blue eyes, and then, finally, to something like gratitude before the light in them flickered out.

Like a wave breaking over a rock, dashing itself into a churning froth on the unyielding stone, the creature tumbled forward. As soon as its body connected with Thorin's it collapsed into pure white sea foam, evaporating with a hiss on Thorin's skin, leaving a thin layer of salt and sand where it had fallen.

The crystal fell to the stone floor, and shattered into a thousand pieces.

Orcrist clattered to the stone a heartbeat after.

Thorin felt his knees hit the ground, the white spots in his vision fizzling bigger and brighter, the world whirling madly around him in a kaleidoscope of stone.

The last thing he saw before the white blanched into shadow was Bilbo's face over his own, terror scrawled across his features and his mouth moving frantically. Then the darkness claimed him, and Thorin sank into unconsciousness.

 

 

*

 

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_March 27th_

 

Ori took the hot tea from Dori and sighed heavily into the mug.

“Cheer up,” Nori said helpfully, while clapping him hard on the back. Ori nearly inhaled his tea. “You know what Dwalin's like,” continued Nori. “He's just had a nasty turn, that's all. Watching your best friend and king start glowing as some elf monster thing explodes all over him would put anyone in a foul mood.”

“Nori, please,” Dori said tightly. “That's hardly something to be joked about now, is it?”

Nori rolled his eyes, thunking the heels of his boots down onto the table – though Dori shoved them off again almost instantly. Ori mopped the tea from his beard.

“Here's another one moping around because the brothers Lin have their breech-cloths in a knot,” Nori grumbled, almost spilling his own tea on his lap as he tried to prop his feet up on the table again.

“It's not funny,” Ori said, siding with Dori for once and scowling at his brother. “Thorin almost died. Again. No one has any idea what happened. Thorin can't even remember past the... that _thing_ pulling the crystal out of its cloak. Balin and Dwalin said the light was too bright to see what had happened, Bilbo said it felt like the most awful burning magic he'd ever felt, and all that was left of that _thing_ was a pile of sand, salt, and crystal. So do pardon us for being worried.”

Nori waggled a finger at them, leaning back in his chair and gulping his tea.

“Ah, but it's not Thorin you're worried about, naddith.”

Ori's scowl deepened even as he felt his cheeks burn red. He hid his mouth behind the rim of his mug, looking away.

“Of course I'm worried about Thorin. We all are. Except you, seemingly.”

“Unkind _and_ untrue,” Nori huffed. “I just know there's nowt I can do. He doesn't need another mother hen pecking at him now, does he? Best thing I can do is carry on as normal, keep my ears and eyes open. Anyway, my point is that Dwalin'll be back to helping you sort the library before you know it. Just let him bark at things for a while, eh? And you,” he said, pointing at Dori, who looked almost chastised for a moment, “just let Balin make all those contingency plans and whatnot. His guilt will pass, and you'll be back to-- hey!”

Nori ducked the wooden plate aimed at his head.

“No need to finish that, thank you,” said Dori warningly. “You have entirely the wrong idea about how Balin and I spend our time.”

“Secrecy leads to speculation,” Nori said, leaning over to pick up the plate, dropping it back onto the table with a clatter. “Speaking of...” his tone took on an almost sing-song quality.

Ori felt, suddenly, like a rabbit in a snare. He half stood up from the table, but Nori's hand caught his arm and tugged him back down onto his seat.

“What's happening between you and Dwalin? You’ve gotten awfully close.”

“Nothing,” Ori choked out, far too quickly and far too loudly. “Nothing at all.”

Nori's eyes narrowed, and Ori followed his glance over to Dori, who was looking at him with open concern. Something in his chest wobbled dangerously.

“Nothing's happening,” he said, voice cracking.

“But you want something to be happening, don't you?” asked Nori, giving Ori's wrist a little squeeze.

The thing in his chest wobbled harder and cracked as he ducked his chin in a nod, and pressed his trembling lips together.

“You owe me ten gold coins,” Dori said. The wooden plate missed Dori's head by mere centimetres, and Ori gasped out a tearful laugh as Nori spoke.

“Talk about appropriate behaviour! Our naddith is here crying, and you're bringing up bleeding money at a time like this? Tsk tsk,” he tutted, wrapping an arm around Ori's shoulders and shaking his head. “Deplorable. I'll hear no more of that.”

Dori rolled his eyes, putting his hand over Ori's own.

“Have you said anything to him...?” he asked, squeezing Ori's fingers.

Ori shook his head, cheeks burning as the first hot tears dripped into his beard.

“Why not?” asked Nori, putting his cheek on top of Ori's head and patting his back.

“It's not that simple, Nori,” said Dori with a heavy sigh.

“How would you know?”

“Because, unlike you, I've read books where this sort of thing happens,” Dori replied primly, choking another laugh out of Ori.

Nori clasped Ori's damp cheeks in his hands.

“Do you hear that, naddith? First he asks me for money, then he mocks me for not being able to read. We're living with a monster. A cruel tyrant.”

“You're both awful,” Ori said thickly, leaning into their touches. “Thank you.”

Twin smiles touched Nori and Dori's expressions, the little crinkles and dimples matching up perfectly – the remnants of their mother still shining through in their faces.

“If it's umral, then all you need to do is wait until he realises it, too,” Dori said gently, squeezing his fingers again. “You're still very young, and Dwalin's hardly ready to sleep.”

He nodded, snuffling loudly. But it wasn’t the years between them keeping him awake at night, worrying and fretting over his future.

“You're not like amad, ikdêszunshfallithê,” said Nori softly.

A fresh wave of tears stung Ori's eyes, his vision blurring as his brother saw right through him, to his deepest fear.

They didn't know that. No one knew that. Neither Dori nor Nori felt the tug of umral; one instance where the two very different brother's hearts worked in the same manner.

But Ori had felt the flutterings of love since before he could remember. Not the deep, universal love his brothers held for each other and for him, for their family and friends. He felt another sort, too. The same threads his mother had chased miserably, until she died.

She'd never found her umral.

Nori and Dori's arms formed a bracket around him as he sobbed, the emotions and fears he'd been holding deep inside him rushing out in an unstoppable flood of tears.

He'd spent so long thinking about his feelings, picking them apart and disseminating them until he couldn't be sure what they were, or whether he'd ever actually felt them in the first place. Sometimes he managed to convince himself he'd made them all up, all the love and affection; the joy and the longing and the loneliness. He managed to convince himself it wasn't umral, only to see Dwalin and be almost knocked over by the avalanche of his feelings. They felt terrifyingly genuine, and insidiously fake all at once.

Was it umral? Was it anything more than fancy, one that would pass in time, when his feelings were never returned?

Or would he die like his mother, alone and cursing his heart for leading him from misery to misery?

“There, there,” Nori said gently when his sobs began to calm, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Come on, jatith. Come on, now. It's not going to end up like that. For what it's worth, I'll put a bet on him liking you back – and I never make a bad bet.”

“You l-literally just lost ten coins t-to Dori,” Ori laughed, the tears running into his beard slowing their race from a sprint to a stagger.

He slumped against them, feeling exhausted as the storm of emotions passed through him, leaving a freshly-washed emptiness in their wake.

Dori's fingers were cool over his skin as his eldest brother smoothed his hair back from his face.

“I've read enough books to know how your story's going to play out,” he said gently. “It won't be like amad. Why don't we invite Balin and Dwalin to a supper, hmn? We can talk wedding security and whatnot.”

“Yeah,” Nori grinned, his hand warm on Ori's back. “And we won't embarrass you. Not even a little bit, just this one time.”

Ori's laugh echoed around the room as he wiped the last of the dampness off his cheeks. He sniffed, nodding his head and shooting them both wobbly smiles.

“Not even a little bit. Promise?”

“”We promise,”” they chorused, pulling back enough to give him some space to collect himself, but not moving too far away.

Ori nodded again, picking up his mug and exhaling shakily.

No matter what happened with Dwalin, he always had his brothers. He had their love, and no matter how often he whined and griped about them, it meant more to him than anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Someone reported my fics on Ao3 - This is why!](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com/post/148307664796/so-someone-reported-me-on-ao3)
> 
>  
> 
> If you or anyone you know shows symptoms of what's been detailed in this chapter, you can find a [good list of hotlines here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/post/21961172409/accepting-help-is-brave-hotlinescrisis-lines), as well as [a good list of chatrooms here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/chatrooms). 
> 
> You can find [me](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com), [Mith](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com), and [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com) all on tumblr! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sending them a message, too! 
> 
> The amount of work these amazing people put in as betas can never be measured. They dedicate so much time and effort, and I'm so grateful for their insight and work.
> 
> [The Forge Sits Silent](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent).  
> [Youtube video of 'Ibinê Mim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4).  
> [Azhâr's soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari).
> 
> List of Khuzdul, Quenya, and Sindarin used in order of appearance:  
> Naddith - Little brother  
> Umral - Oneness / One  
> Amad - mother  
> Ikdêszunshfallithê - my little quill  
> Jatith - little squeaker


	14. 'Afdush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, welcome to my fic. Here with another chapter - as promised! Late is better than never... right? The good news is that I've finished my degree! WAHOO! I found more time to write, and have been DELIGHTED to continue this fic!!!
> 
> Also... FAKE WEDDING A-GO-GO!!! With a twist ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Please make sure to go back a few chapters to check out the amazing art by [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), [Pop](http://www.poplitealqueen.tumblr.com) and [Quel](http://www.tosquinha.tumblr.com), as well as the amazing picture in this chapter by Ruto!!!
> 
> And to my (now) THREE betas who put in a simply unbelievable amount of work, [Tea](http://mcmanatea.tumblr.com), [Mith](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com) and [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com), I really couldn't do any of this without your help. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> I've installed an html feature where if you're on a computer you can hover your cursor over the Khuzdul and Sindarin, and a translation will pop up :D! If you can't get them to pop up, a list of the used Khuzdul and Sindarin is at the end of the chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> [Please come say hi to me on Tumblr!](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> I'd also like to add some potential trigger warnings on this chapter, to do with anxiety, depression, and panic attacks. Please be aware symptoms of these are explored in the following chapters.

 

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_April 6th_

 

 

“You know it's very bad luck, in the Shire, to see your spouse-to-be before the wedding,” said Bilbo from behind the closed door.

Bilbo was currently dressing in what had been Thorin’s study, but was now the hobbit’s bedroom. While they were expected to share a marital chamber, they weren't getting married in the truest sense of the word, and so Bofur had suggested turning some of Thorin's extra rooms into rooms for Bilbo. It was an ingenious plan. Thorin found there was something comforting in knowing Bilbo would be so close, yet he would still have his own precious space.

“So you've said,” Thorin replied patiently, “but it is custom in dwarven culture to meet and weave in the braids before the ceremony, which is fast approaching. Are you having difficulty with the clothing? Balin will be fretting before long.”

Bilbo grumbled something inaudible and, after a few moments of clattering, opened the door.

Thorin took a step back, gaze dropping down over Bilbo’s outfit.

He was dressed in thick black velvet, as was the dwarven custom, and thousands of tiny emeralds had been stitched in geometric patterns across the cloth like leaves on trees. It was well fitted, and while Bilbo wasn't as rounded as he'd been in Bag End, Thorin was pleased to note he had filled out again. The curls on the top of his feet had been oiled and combed, and the edges of Bilbo's hair brushed against his collar. Another point well-made by Bofur, when Bilbo had complained about no one being willing to cut it. He could get it trimmed back in Hobbiton and longer hair would make it easier to put the braid in.

Bilbo's fingers touched the little flower design over his heart. Green ivy leaves circled what Bilbo had called 'dwarf' sunflowers – a name which had made Thorin laugh as he watched Bilbo stitch the gems on the velvet a few nights ago.

Thorin's own tunic was woven with diamonds, a night sky with stars in the shape of Erebor and Orcrist, and the seven stars of Durin across his shoulders. Ivy wound around chrysanthemums over his chest. Affection and friendship, Bilbo had said as he stitched them on. Not quite the button-bloom worn by hobbits, but as Bilbo had put it, they would do well enough.

“... Well. Thank goodness you talked Balin out of all that armour,” Bilbo said softly, putting his hands on his hips as he looked over Thorin. “You look less like some statue, and more like, well... you. It's, um, good. Very good. Yes,” Bilbo said, suddenly hurrying out of the little room and closing the door behind him.

Thorin hummed in agreement, trying to fight a smile. He gestured towards the stools beside the table in their front room where he'd set out some combs, and the marriage beads they'd forged. Bilbo sat down quickly, half turned away from Thorin.

A comfortable silence fell between them as Thorin combed out a few of the longer strands of Bilbo's hair and began to braid them neatly. The texture was so different from his own, finer and sleeker even without the help of oils. Where his own hair kinked and curled in different places along the strand, Bilbo’s curved, though admittedly each in different direction from its neighbouring lock. Braiding hair like this took a little more planning, or else the braid itself would twist. After a few moments he opened the little clasp on the bead he’d forged and clamped it around the bottom of the braid, snapping it closed.

 

 

The whole situation felt surreal, and almost... funny. He was getting married. He was getting married to a little hobbit from the Shire, who had risked life and limb to reclaim a mountain he'd never even heard of before. There had never been a moment since Smaug had come where Thorin had imagined he might end up married to someone – no matter the circumstances. If his parents could see him here today, if his brother...

He hesitated, still holding the end of the braid, his thumb touching over the design in the silver.

“Are you alright?” Bilbo asked softly.

“Yes,” said Thorin. “It's been a long time since I've put a braid in someone's hair. The colour of yours...” Thorin trailed off, his throat tightening. He pushed out a sigh and let go of Bilbo's braid. “It reminded me of Frerin, for a moment.”

Bilbo's expression softened, and he reached over to squeeze Thorin's knee.

“I should've liked to meet him. I think we'd have gotten along.”

“I imagine you would have,” Thorin nodded, handing the combs over to Bilbo and shifting on his stool so he could reach him more easily as they traded places.

The feeling of Bilbo's fingers in his hair was comforting, and he let his eyes drift closed.

Beneath this calm, he was nervous. He could feel it tapping at his gut like a single miner with their pick, but serenity lay like a blanket over it all. His mind felt clear – clearer than it had in many weeks. This morning he'd woken with energy in his body, and the confrontation he'd had with the evil spirit had faded from his active thoughts.

After all, he'd vanquished it, hadn't he? It had disappeared along with the weighty, leaden presence he'd been feeling crushed under.

Thorin wasn't vain enough to believe it had been the enemy himself, but perhaps it had been a servant of his. Someone sent to reclaim his soul, to snatch back the life he'd somehow stolen from death.

Once again he'd dodged the final blow.

Hope glimmered on the horizon.

“You're in a good mood,” Bilbo said, undoing the braid he'd just put in, and brushing out the strands again. “Sorry, that one was terribly lopsided. One of Bombur's little ones would've done a better job, frankly.”

“I would still wear a crooked braid done by your hand,” Thorin chuckled. “Much like a pebble's first try, I'm sure my people will find it an endearing attempt.” The gentle tug to his hair had him turning his head to raise an eyebrow at Bilbo.

“You should save all that nonsense for when someone's watching,” Bilbo grumbled, averting his gaze. “Excuse me for asking about your disposition! I won't mention it again.”

Thorin was quiet for a moment, looking at his hands and the thick rings looped around his knuckles.

“... I feel freed,” he said, softly. “For the first time in many, many years.”

Bilbo's hand stilled beside his cheek as Thorin turned his fingers to look at his palms. They were still rough and scarred, calloused from a lifetime of working in forges and wielding swords.

But for the first time in a long, long time, they felt like his own again.

“Well,” Bilbo murmured, his voice gentle. “That I am very, very glad to hear. Thorin,” he said, an odd note in his voice.

Thorin shifted his gaze to look up at the other, waiting for him to continue.

“I... You see, I--...”

The door opened with a flourish, Balin sweeping in with yards of material in his arms.

“By my beard! Aren't you two finished, yet?” he exclaimed. “We must be off shortly, laddie. Don't just stand there.”

Bilbo's cheeks burned red as he shot Balin a scathing look, quickly going back to the braid as Thorin chuckled.

“You will have to tell me later,” Thorin said, watching Balin shake out two lace cloaks, their fibres as soft and delicate as gossamer. The older dwarf hung them over the backs of two chairs and turned to inspect the braid in Thorin's hair.

He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head.

“Well,” Balin said, “It's a braid.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you very much!” Bilbo huffed, putting his hands on his hips and puffing out his chest as Thorin laughed and stood, touching the braid in his hair.

“Don't tease him for his best efforts,” he said. Bilbo threw his hands up in the air, stomping over to the cloaks with a shake of his head. A mutter of, 'dwarves!' pulled another chuckle from Thorin's lips.

Thorin took his cloak and swung it over his shoulders. It was so finely woven he could barely feel the weight of it, and as he pulled the long cowl down over his head it tickled the end of his nose. He fastened the little pearl buttons at the front, delicate and tiny in his fingers. When it was on properly he turned his head to watch Bilbo pulling on his own. A smile touched his lips as the hobbit slid the veil-like cowl over his own head.

“... My,” Balin said softly, looking at the both of them with an odd expression on his face. “Well. No one can say you two don't look the part.” Then he shook his head and brushed his hands down the front of his tunic. “Right, let's be off, then. We’re just shy of late.”

Though Erebor was illuminated by a mixture of torches and the bulbs of generated light, the corridors were eerily silent. Bilbo’s elbow brushed against Thorin’s, and their gazes met. He watched Bilbo raise his eyebrows, gaze darting up to the crisscross of bridges and walkways above and below them in the main chamber - all empty.

In the depths of his memory he heard the clink of a single gold coin falling onto this very bridge.

“Long gone, and good riddance,” Bilbo muttered under his breath, crossing his arms. The sudden tension dropped from Thorin’s shoulders as he exhaled and nudged his elbow against Bilbo’s arm.  
“At least we are not running this time,” he replied, voice low enough Balin wouldn’t hear it as he strode ahead of them.

Bilbo grinned impishly.

“And heading in the right direction.”

“I knew what I was doing. I knew these halls, these--.”

“--These walls, this stone, and that there would still be a chain hanging down in that pit. Of course, of course. I never had any doubt whatsoever.”

Thorin gave Bilbo the most unimpressed, dry look he could muster.

“Is this what I am to expect from marriage, master Baggins?”

Bilbo laughed loudly, the sound bouncing off the chamber’s walls and the veil fluttering around his face.

The walk to the ceremony hall seemed to pass by in an instant. Before Thorin could even draw breath, he and Bilbo were standing in front of two massive stone doors, Balin having disappeared into the hall via another entrance. Beyond them he could hear the clamour from the crowds, gathered on the high balconies and sloping seats carved into the rock which overlooked the walkway.

Thorin's heart slammed against his ribs, his mouth suddenly dry as he looked down at Bilbo.

“Are you sure this is what you wish to do?” he asked, his voice coming out hoarser than he'd intended. Bilbo started, as if brought out of deep thought, and fixed his eyes on Thorin's.

For a second he didn't say anything. His face was perfectly still under the cowl. Then he smiled so warmly it crinkled the corners of his eyes and wrinkled his nose, and Thorin felt warmth unfurl in his chest, the force of it almost making him stagger back.

“I'm a Baggins. I'm a hobbit of my word, and when I mean to do something, I do it.”

Thorin nodded. Before he could reply a triumphant blast from the horns rang out, echoed by what sounded like a cacophony of cheers and stamping of boots. That was their cue.

He held out his arm, palm facing upwards. As Bilbo put his palm against Thorin's and linked their fingers together, as was the custom, Thorin felt a strange tug at his belly. Bilbo's fingers seemed so small between his own, but he knew the strength in them.

The doors swung open and with a deep, steadying breath Thorin turned his gaze forward. His fingers tightened against Bilbo's, and when he felt him squeeze back they started to walk down the long stretch of stone.

Trumpets and horns sounded from above and around them, supported by the boom and rattle of drums. Great strings of lights hung above them and torches flickered in their brackets on the walls. After the gentle twilight of the passage here, it felt like stepping out into the midday sun. Thorin felt Bilbo's step falter under the weight of it all. He pressed his thumb to the back of Bilbo's knuckles, leading them towards where Dís was standing at the end of the walkway.

She was dressed in velvet robes of deep blue with diamonds stitched in harmonious patterns of stars and leaves. The short, raised platform she was standing on had been covered with a bright emerald cloth instead of the normal black velvet, and where fine pieces of metal, stone, and gem work were usually placed were instead huge bouquets of spring flowers. Fresh arrangements had been hung from the balconies and pillars, as per Bilbo's request. The smell of spring hung in the air.

As they approached the end of the walkway the music faded until they were standing in relative silence.

Thorin kept his eyes on Dís, trying to ignore the wide smile on her face.

He was getting married. The realisation hit him like he'd run straight into a shield and had the breath knocked out of him. He, the king of Erebor, was marrying Bilbo Baggins in front of his family and his kin, and Bilbo...

Bilbo stood here all alone, dressed in dwarven finery, deep beneath a mountain. He had no family or friends from the Shire, and though this wedding was for show, Thorin had been blind to not see this. Insensitive.

Dís began to speak. Thorin was jolted from his thoughts by Bilbo's thumb stroking along the length of his own. He glanced over to his friend, and once again felt like he was reeling from the warm smile on Bilbo's face.

If he owned but a chipping of the courage Bilbo Baggins had, he would never have fallen to his own greed and ambition. He would never have let harm come so close to his nephews and his kin.

But if he had all the courage this hobbit possessed, perhaps he would never have met him. The image of Bilbo in his dressing gown in Bag End swam into his mind, of the portly little halfling who had sized him up and then made him soup from the leftovers of his pantry.

Bilbo had followed him to the other side of the world. He'd saved his life, many times over. He'd stood by him in his most glorious moments. And in his most sickening, Bilbo had done what none of his friends and family had dared to do: the little hobbit from the Shire had thrown everything he had to the wind, all to save the life of one stubborn, idiotic dwarf.

“Do you, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, swear to hold true to Thorin, son of Thráin, King under the Mountain, through times of trouble and peace under the watch of Mahal the Creator – or under what to you holds equal weight – until your years here are spent, long may they be?”

Bilbo cleared his throat, standing up a little straighter.

“I do,” he said, voice ringing out clearly in the wide cavern.

Thorin felt like he was seeing Bilbo clearly for the first time. The whispers and murmurs of the crowd sounded like waves upon the shore, rising and falling in volume. His heart lurched in his chest, and a breathless feeling crept up inside him.

Memories of nights on the road where they had shared pipes and talked until the dawn peered over the horizon flickered through his mind. Days walking together in either comfortable silence, or swapping stories from their homes – both alien to the other. The night at Beorn's where he had fallen asleep on the pillow of Bilbo's shoulder.

Scattered images from his first days in Erebor, but Bilbo a constant in each one, Bilbo’s face a constant beacon in each one, until...

The lake. The ice. Pain, and then, as darkness crept in, a figure rushing towards him.

“Do you Thorin, son of Thráin, swear to hold true to Bilbo Baggins of the Shire through times of trouble and peace, under the watch of Mahal the Creator, until your years here are spent, long may they be?”

“I do,” Thorin replied, keeping the quiver out of his voice.

Bilbo smiled beneath the veil, and Thorin's breath caught.

Bilbo's voice had been the one to call him back from the darkness, time and time again. He'd cooked stews and nursed him back to health, had stayed by his side through those first dim, confusing days.

Like tinder catching a spark and starting to blaze he remembered the gifts they'd exchanged on their shared birthday, the sights in Erebor he'd taken Bilbo to see.

The comfort he'd found whenever Bilbo had been beside him.

The comfort he'd ached for, and hadn't recognised it for what it was when he had it, so unused to its presence.

Thorin's hands shook as he and Bilbo turned to face each other. Dís was still speaking, reciting the ancient vows in Khuzdul and offering her prayers to Mahal for his blessing, but Thorin couldn’t catch the words and keep them in his mind. He reached out to pull the cowl back and off Bilbo's face as Bilbo did the same to him.

There was a second, as the two layers of gossamer crossed, where he remembered looking into Bilbo's eyes between the rings of the mithril shirt.

He had been blind.

Mahal, he had been so blind.

Bilbo's shoulders were small but steady beneath his hands as they leaned towards each other. His heart pounded in his chest, and his mouth was dry. Images and recollections from the entirety of their time together flashed before his eyes.

He'd been so concerned with matters of his mind and spirit he'd ignored the whispers from his heart.

Their foreheads touched, and Thorin closed his eyes as the cavern exploded into cheering and whistling.

He'd felt something akin to amrâl for Bilbo since the Carrock at least, but it was only now he realised it.

At his own fake wedding.

The stone below his feet trembled. Again the triumphant chaos of the horns and drums swirled around him as he and Bilbo linked arms and began to leave the cavern through a separate door. Time passed in a blur and he couldn’t remember a second of the walk from the marriage hall to where the grand feast had been laid out. He was an idiot. An absolute idiot who could not see what was in front of his own face. How had he managed to come this far without realising for a moment his feelings towards Bilbo ran so deep?

Thorin took his seat in the middle of the largest table, arm instantly cold as Bilbo pulled away. He felt utterly dazed, his mind lost in his thoughts as Bilbo sat beside him and the hall slowly filled with his kin. It all felt distant, as if he was meant to be watching a play he couldn't concentrate on, unaware of the hours slipping by. The raised platform his long table was sat upon felt miles high. Even with Bilbo, his family, and the Company sitting on either side of him, joking and laughing loudly, it was as if he was floating above the scene.

Before long the hall was filled with dwarves. Every seat was taken, pebbles being held on laps or sat between the platters of food. Supplies had been brought from the Blue Mountains, more and more added along the way from Rivendell and Mirkwood. Erebor had paid handsomely for it, but the cost was worth the morale alone.

Not that Thorin could grasp onto even a thread of hope. There was nothing in his heart beyond the sensation of standing on the lip of a vast, yawning drop into some sort of infinite darkness.

He idly watched dwarves coming and going from the communal kitchens, bringing new dishes to the tables and returning empty ones. When the platters in front of him were replaced he nodded his head in thanks to the beaming dwarrows, but it felt like he was separated from them all by thick panes of warped glass.

The music was muffled, the food and drink tasteless on his tongue, and it took momentous concentration to reply when a question was asked of him.

All he could do was eat in practiced motions, like a contraption built of cogs and levers with no beating heart beneath the shell. Conversation washed over and around him, but he kept his mouth busy with food and his gaze on his plate.

Towards the end of the feast Bilbo shifted closer as Kíli jammed himself next to Fíli on the hobbit's side of the table, talking excitedly to his brother.

Thorin could suddenly feel his heartbeat in his ears. Bilbo's elbow brushing against him made his skin prickle, his hair tugging at its roots.

When had his fond feelings turned into something deeper? How could he have mistaken them for only friendship, when they were so different to the feelings he held for Dwalin, or Dáin?

Were his feelings, though only newly recognised, why he had agreed so easily to the idea of the wedding?

“Thorin?”

Bilbo's soft voice tore him from his reverie. He looked over, watching as Bilbo's brow furrowed.

“Are you feeling alright, Thorin?” he said softly, leaning in a little closer. There was a flush to his round cheeks. Probably from the strong dwarven ale Bilbo was drinking. The gems on the black velvet of his clothing sparkled, casting a spray of gleaming stars in his hazel eyes.

He loved him. He felt it in every thud of his heart. His fingertips and toes prickled and burned from the force of it, and his skin felt too tight over distorted bones. The urge to wrap his arms around Bilbo, to draw him close and hold him until he felt like himself again crashed through him. He could do it. They were married, after all, and his people would be expecting some form of affection.

But, he thought as he placed his hand gently over the hobbit's own, Bilbo did not feel the same for him. He could not act with such passion, not when it would mean something different to both of them. It would not be right.

“Yes. It's been a long day, is all.”

Bilbo laughed, head tilting back for a brief second. Thorin's breath caught in his throat as Bilbo entwined their fingers. It did not mean what he suddenly longed for it to mean.

“You can certainly say that again. You know, dwarven weddings have rather grown on me. It's a pity this wasn't the Shire. I think you'd have enjoyed a Midsummer wedding. The drinks are much stronger, at least, though there are more trees.”

A laugh burst from Thorin's chest, warm and genuine though it left an aching tenderness in its wake.

“I think I could ignore a few extra trees for hobbit food and drink.”

“Well, maybe we'll get to go to one when we visit the Shire. Goodness knows I have enough relatives and enough social standing to warrant an invitation or two – mysterious, improper adventurer I may now be!”

Thorin nodded, trailing his thumb over the curve of Bilbo's knuckles. His mind was torn between focusing on each bump and dip between the fine bones in Bilbo's hand and his smiling face – cheeks reddened from the ale.

Just then Kíli clapped his hand on Bilbo's shoulder, and the moment was lost. Bilbo turned away, his fingers slipping from Thorin's grip.

The sound of Thorin's heart in his ears muffled all others again. He swallowed hard, mouth and throat suddenly parched. His fingers trembled as he clasped the silver goblet of red wine in front of him, and though he drank deeply, it did little to refresh him.

The brief touch of joy faded as if it had never struck him, and he felt his heart settle lower in his chest.

He was a coward, and a thief.

Somehow he had trapped Bilbo in this arrangement, holding him back from a union with someone he loved. He had asked too much, and had nothing to give in return.

Time passed like dark clouds drifting across a grey sky. For a moment he could taste salt on his tongue and smell the sea, his memory turning to a fishing expedition he'd been hired for. Their numbers thin beyond reason, and the Blue Mountains little more than carved caves, they were in sore need of coin. Menfolk in a neighbouring seaside village had hired him and Dwalin to haul the nets and raise and lower the heavy sails. It had been hard work, leaving their hands raw with rope blisters, but beyond the gruelling nature of the task, he remembered most vividly the eternal grey plain of sea and sky. Barren, and empty.

He felt similarly adrift now, the ground unsteady beneath his feet as he stood from the table at Bilbo's prompt. The festivities were winding down, the more sober leading the less sober to their beds – though the hall was still filled with raucous laughter and song. There seemed to be so much colour and life just in front of him, but separated by a grey veil. Not silver, or mithril, or steel, but... fog.

“Thorin? Did you hear a word of what I just said?”

He blinked, looking down at where Bilbo had paused them in the corridor leading towards their rooms. He didn’t even remember the walk from the feasting table to the King’s corridors running throughout Erebor.

“What?”

“I was saying you don't look too well. Peaky. Are you feeling alright?”

Bilbo reached up, putting his hand on Thorin's forehead with a soft frown.

“I'm fine,” he replied, gently taking Bilbo's hand and lifting it from his brow. “Simply thinking.”

“You've been thinking for hours, then. What's troubling you? And don't try to tell me nothing, I know you a good deal better than that. What's on your mind?”

Thorin bit down on his tongue to stop his reply of 'nothing' from escaping. His lips twitched as he tried to hold back the small smile Bilbo's words brought forth.

“I was remembering life before the Blue Mountains had been settled properly,” Thorin said after a few heartbeats of silence. He let go of Bilbo's hand, starting to walk forwards again. It wasn't a lie, but it saved him from having to tell the whole truth.

“Oh? I've heard bits from Fíli and Kíli, but they don't remember much about the early days. Dís has a few more stories, but I get the sense she doesn't like to talk about them, and I'm certainly not one to push.”

Thorin glanced over at that, raising an eyebrow. Bilbo's cheeks pinkened, and he clasped his hands behind his back.

“Well,” Bilbo amended, “not in that case. What were you thinking of?”

“A fishing excursion. I spent many years in the villages of men, earning coin for my kin. All those who could work did work. I... I tried to secure what I could in lines we were used to. Forging, stone masonry, mining, and so forth. Sometimes the menfolk had need of strong crewmen on their ships, but it was dangerous. Their ships were little more than scrapped-together buckets, leaking and battered by the storms which plagued their shores. After so much war and loss, I could not ask my kind to sail with them. Not when the risks were so great.”

“So you sailed with them instead, I suppose,” Bilbo said drily.

Thorin inclined his head. They began to climb the staircase leading to their rooms – following the paths carved just for the royal family and guard to traverse. They had been left almost entirely intact, too narrow for the dreadful worm to squeeze his foul body through in search of gems.

“As little as we could afford to, but yes. Dwalin and I went with them. It was hard, miserable work, but part of our pay was in dried fish which we could make last through long winters.”

“And why were you thinking of hard, miserable work at our marriage feast?”

Thorin swallowed hard, busying his hands with opening the intricate door which lead to the main corridor in the king's quarters and closing it behind them again.

“I... was thinking of what we had not had in so long, and... how you do not realise what you have until it is out of your reach.” He looked to Bilbo, opening the door to the King’s chambers. Though his front room hadn’t been modified, the door to what been his study felt glaringly out of place. Now it was Bilbo’s own, separate bedroom. From the outside it looked like they shared a bed, as king and consort should do, but in reality they were more like neighbours.

It was yet another half-truth. Another shadow he had created for himself.

Bilbo's expression softened. Guilt chipped at Thorin's gut, and he averted his gaze.

“You know, I like to think you feel able to share these... these thoughts and concerns with me. I may be your husband in writing, but, well, I like to think I'm one of your closest friends. You're certainly one of mine – goodness knows how many times a day I bother you with my chatter! I hate to think of you...” Bilbo trailed off, one of his smaller hands resting on Thorin's forearm.

Thorin glanced back to him, leaden under the warm touch.

“I hate to think you being so alone, even if it is all only in your head. I care about you very much. You're quite possibly my dearest friend, and that's not an honour given lightly,” he continued, tone laden with sincerity.

Before Thorin could formulate some reply, Bilbo quirked a curiously sad half-smile and squeezed his arm. Then he leaned up, standing on the tips of his toes, and brushed a fleeting kiss to Thorin's cheek.

Everything froze. Thorin's heart thumped against his ribs, lopsided and out-of-time. Whatever thought had been forming in his mind disappeared, and all he could do was stare at Bilbo.

“You don't need to think yourself alone anymore. All this,” Bilbo said, speaking quickly and gesturing around himself at the walls, “You've earned fair and square. I'd like to hear more of your thoughts, as I'm sure you'll be hearing many more of mine, as very good friends should do.”

Bilbo seemed to hesitate, teeth sinking down on his bottom lip. Then he took a half-step backwards, his smile turning thin and flat.

“Well. I'll take my leave now, and see you in the morning. I imagine there are more documents to sign and certainly thank you letters to write! Goodnight.”

With that Bilbo turned on his heels, all but trotting into his bedroom and closing the door behind him.

It took Thorin a few moments before he could convince his feet to move. He dragged himself into his own quarters, body slowed by the cacophonous whirlwind of thoughts and emotions trapped inside him. His fingers found the door handle, shutting it behind him before he sat down heavily on his bed.

Tonight would be a long night. He could feel it in his bones.

 

 

*

 

 _T.A 2942_  
_April 7th_

 

 

Dís knocked louder on Thorin's door. It had gone past noon, and her brother had yet to appear from his 'marital chambers'. While this had been greeted with much joviality from the citizens of Erebor as Thorin failed to appear at breakfast or lunch, herself, the company, and Bilbo had only grown more and more worried.

“Thorin? Nadad, answer me. May I come in?”

Bilbo had handled the whole thing with grace enough to thoroughly impress her. He had taken the news of Thorin's absence well, leading the morning inspection of the repairs in Erebor with all the care and sincerity of a court-born dwarven noble. He was a fitting consort indeed. Not that Dís had missed how he clasped his hands behind his back tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white and bloodless.

“Thorin?” Dís pushed the door, frowning when there was no resistance of a lock. The room was dark, the ashes from the fire in the grate, and no lamps lit. Her stomach dropped.

There was a shape on the bed, still and unmoving. The form of her brother with a sheet laid over him.

For a heartbeat panic flooded her. He was dead, and no one had noticed.

Then Thorin turned onto his side, away from her, and the rush of fear was embroiled with anger.

“Thorin Lay-about, what in Mahal's name do you think you're doing?” she said, storming into the room and starting to light the lamps. “Why are you still in bed? You have a kingdom to govern, and you've left your consort with all your kingly duties and none of your guidance! Bilbo is heading to Dale as we speak, to survey the building of the farm houses and the first planting in your stead as opposed to at your side.”

She moved onto the fire, scraping the shovel along the stone to remove the ashes before she set about lighting a new fire.

“Do not tell me the king of Erebor is resigned to his bed because of drink. I was watching you, and you barely drank a drop. Are you ill? I've heard no reports of such from the guards – in fact, the only thing they've had to report is the lack of things to report.”

A spark finally took and the logs began to smoulder. Dís managed to calm her blows with the bellows enough to help the fire, rather than hinder it. She hung them up by the mantle, brushing her hands against her skirts to clean the ash from them. The lack of response from her brother sent another pulse of annoyance and worry through her.

Dís strode towards the bed.

“Or perhaps you think it is already the honeymoon, and plan to spend it alone in the darkness of your chambers like some ghoul or--...” she broke off abruptly, catching sight of Thorin's face.

He was as pale as moonstone with dark circles under his closed eyes, but it was the silent and steady drip of tears down his statuesque face which had stopped her in her tracks.

“... Thorin...?” she breathed. “Oh, Thorin, I didn't mean... You are no ghoul, nor ghost. I spoke thoughtlessly in my annoyance.”

Dís dropped to her knees, reaching out and brushing the hair back from his face. His skin was warm under her fingers, but he didn't flinch.

“Thorin, listen to me. I spoke too hastily. Come, now... I did not mean it. I don't think it, either. Thorin...? Answer me, nadad, please.”

She tried to brush the tears from his face, her heart beating faster. Why was he so silent? He was prone to brooding and worrying, but this sort of catatonic silence... she had seen it only a few times before. In her grandfather, and her father, and those just before their long sleep.

But Thorin had beaten the goldsickness. He'd paid dearly for his follies. He didn't deserve to fall ill again, not so soon, and not like this.

Thorin turned from her hands, facing away from her once more.

His voice was rough when he spoke, like a draft down an ancient and forgotten corridor.

“I have no heart in me.”

“What do you mean, you have no heart in you?” Dís said, sitting on the edge of the bed and pushing her brother's shoulder until he was on his back. She placed her hand over his chest. “I can feel it drum as we speak. Nadad, what's wrong?”

Thorin didn't answer. Keeping one hand over his heart, Dís reached up and pressed her palm to Thorin's forehead. He was warm, but not feverish. Pale but not clammy. Perhaps a wound had turned nasty? She tugged his shirt down a little to look at the deep scars over his sternum. They were pale, as if decades old, and there was no fire beneath them.

Thorin's fingers slowly curled around hers.

“I should not be here.”

“No, you should not. You should be in Dale with Bilbo and your people.”

“I should not be alive.”

His grip tightened. For a long, horrible moment Dís was reminded of Frerin's clutch on her hand as he lay in the mud outside Khazad-dûm, Víli already cold beside them as the life drained from her little brother. She pressed a kiss to Thorin's knuckles.

“Don't say such a thing. Mahal brought you back for a reason, I know it. You are meant to be here with us. Just as Fíli and Kíli are. Thorin, please...” she said, her voice cracking as she held Thorin's hand – warm and living – to her beard. “You're frightening me.”

He was silent again. Dís counted the beats of his heart in her mind, breathing out a long exhale when Thorin reached an arm up to wrap around her shoulders. She allowed herself to be pulled down and rested her head against his shoulder – one hand still on his and the other still over his heart.

“I wish I had been left to sleep,” he whispered.

Dís swallowed against the fire in her throat. He did not mean her waking him this afternoon, if he had even been asleep before she'd come in.

“That's a cruel thing to say to someone who almost lost everyone, nadad. To someone who thanks Mahal every day that you woke up. I don't understand this... this melancholy you shroud yourself in. I don't understand any of it. This is what you wanted – what we all wanted. Erebor reclaimed with you, the rightful heir, on the throne. Alive and well. Is this about the marriage? About Bilbo?”

Thorin didn't reply. Dís sighed, closing her eyes as she let more of her weight rest on her brother.

“I have loved you from the moment I was born, nadad, but so rarely do I understand you,” she whispered. Dís pulled herself up, Thorin's hand falling from around her shoulders onto the bed. He made no effort to move it, fingers still and palm facing upwards. His eyes didn't open.

Dís opened her mouth to speak, but before she could the door to Thorin's chambers opened with a loud creak. She glanced over her shoulder.

Bilbo blinked, shaking his head a little and sending water flying from his soaked hair. His eyes flicked from Thorin's still form on the bed to Dís, and his face turned pale.

“Is he--?”

“--Alive, yes,” Dís said quickly. Bilbo's shoulders sagged in relief. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and hanging up his sodden cloak over a chair. Dís frowned. “You should be in Dale. What happened?”

Bilbo ran his fingers through his hair, walking over to the bed opposite Dís.

“A spring shower, or so I was told, though it seemed to me more like someone had diverted a river on top of us. The ceremony's been delayed a day. I imagine the seeds will wash away if anyone tries any planting, and my hand's cramped enough from writing thank you letters to pen more to Beorn begging for his store. Besides, I'm not so much of a cook, and he didn't seem interested in recipes beyond honeycakes, and, well, he has them now, so I can't imagine what I'd trade with, me just being a rather daft old hobbit after all, and him being a, well, a magical creature of some sort of... sort of...”

Bilbo trailed off as he reached Thorin's side, mouth a little open before he snapped it shut. His jaw tightened, and Dís watched a muscle jump in his cheek.

He suddenly looked very small and young. Then he sighed heavily, burying his head in his hands for a long moment. When he dropped his hands back to his sides he looked much older. Weary beyond measure.

“Thorin...” he said softly, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “I know you can hear me. I've spent enough time around you dead, unconscious, or asleep to know when you're just ignoring me.”

Thorin didn't reply.

Bilbo glanced up to Dís, his expression intense even as he hesitated. Dís nodded, shifting so she was no longer leaning on Thorin or touching him. She clasped her hands together. Bilbo swallowed, gaze flicking over Thorin's face. He shifted closer, glancing back at her again before he put one hand where Thorin's jaw met his neck, over his beard.

“Listen to me. Listen,” Bilbo said, a shake in his voice even as he kept it quiet and controlled. “I don't know what battle you're fighting in your head, but... but you told me that when you were in the depths of your goldsickness, you... you said you heard my voice. And it helped. You said it helped you. So here I am, alright? Thorin? I'm here, I'm right here, and whatever's wrong, you can win. Or we'll find someone who can help. Gandalf, or Elrond. Someone. But for now I'm here.”

Dís watched Bilbo's fingers tap against Thorin's cheek. She looked away, brow furrowing. Like some ancient machine she could feel cogs beginning to creak inside her, though she didn't yet know why, or what it meant.

“So if I ever helped you before, then... then just open your eyes. Please. Thorin, please. Just open your eyes. For me, this time. Can you--... there. Good. Much better, thank you.”

She could hear the relief in Bilbo's voice without having to look at either of them, her gaze focussed on her fingers. A needle of jealousy stung her. Thorin had barely responded to her, his sister, but the halfling he'd known for barely two years was able to get through to him where she could not. Dís exhaled slowly. The sting slowly melted into a shiver of relief.

As long as someone could tap into Thorin's withdrawn silence, that was all that mattered.

“You need to eat and drink. If I make some broth, will you take it? … Was that a nod? Alright. Alright, then I'll do that. I think you'll feel a little better with something in your stomach – I know I always do. And a nice, hot bath, that'll sort out most things. Maybe an evening walk outside the mountain. You can show me those caves you were telling me about a few days ago. I should like to see them. Right. Dís and I will give you a little privacy while I make the broth.”

Dís stood up when she felt Bilbo do so, glancing back to her brother. Thorin's gaze was fixed on the ceiling, expression one between despair and something terrifyingly blank.

She strode from the bedroom, crossing her arms as Bilbo closed the door behind them and they stood in the front room.

“It's this place,” Bilbo blurted out in a low voice before she could speak. “It's the mountain. I know it's this cursed mountain.”

“Excuse me?” she said, losing her grip on the thoughts trying to form in her mind. Bilbo's hands trembled on the door, and he closed his eyes tight as he inhaled sharply through his nose.

“Forgive me, I didn't mean to insult your home, I...” he said, voice trailing off. He drew back from the door, suddenly spinning on his heel to face her, arms crossed to mirror hers. “No. I meant it. I think there's a curse on this mountain. And I think it's got its teeth into Thorin, and I think it's destroying him. He can't stay here. I'm sorry, but he can't. He just can't.”

Dís tracked the flex and twitch of Bilbo's fingers against his elbows with her gaze. She watched the way his chest rose and fell sharply, the jumping muscle along his jaw, and the press of his lips into a thin line.

There was no noise from behind Thorin's door, no movement, nothing.

“... Alright,” she said.

“I think that--... what?” Bilbo spluttered, dropping his hands down to his side and blinking at her. Dís nodded her head.

“Alright. I said alright. Perhaps it is the mountain. Perhaps Durin's curse is in the heart of it. I don't see it in myself or my sons, nor in any other dwarf here, none save Thorin, but...” she looked over to the door.

None save Thorin.

None of them had tried to save Thorin. Not really. She had tried to dissuade him from various notions he held about his 'duties', tried to ease the burden of rule and smooth the path they had carved, but time and time again she had said nothing when he took some risk to save them. Like when he had moved to the front of the lines in Azanulbizar, or when he had lead the remaining army to recover their kin. She had said nothing when he had gone ahead to clear out caves in the Blue Mountains, nor when he had been the first to dive into flooded mines to save those he could. No words passed her lips when he went out on the rickety boats to catch fish, nor when he worked days and nights without sleep to put food on their plates.

And when he had told her he was going to Erebor, to try to reclaim their home, she had nodded. Oh, she had begged and pleaded with Fíli and Kíli not to follow, not both of them at least, but for Thorin all she'd done was patch his cloak and polish what armour they had left.

Thorin wanted to be in Erebor. He wanted to be king, to provide the life his people deserved, and she wanted that, too.

But not if it was killing him. She wouldn't stand back and watch him destroy himself.

“I'll take him to the Shire,” Bilbo said softly. “We'll move the honeymoon forward. I'll look after him there. We'll... We'll stop by Rivendell, take him to Elrond and I'll see if I can't throw some letter into the damn wind and hope Gandalf somehow gets it – if anyone can help it's him, and he owes us that, I feel, after everything. Perhaps that elf lady, too, the one who helped Fíli.”

“Alright. I'll talk to Balin,” Dís replied, glancing over to the closed door once more. Then she sighed deeply, turning to sit on one of the armchairs in the front room. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back.

“I should like a little time to think, and you have a broth to prepare.”

“Yes. Yes, alright,” said Bilbo.

Dís could hear the hesitation in his voice. Then she felt his small hand on her shoulder.

“I'll look after him, Dís. The Shire will be good for him.”

She nodded, listening to the almost silent pad of Bilbo's bare feet across the stone floor. The door opened and closed, and she was left in silence.

 

 

 

_*_

_T.A 2942_  
_April 14th_

 

 

The hammer of rain on the roof of the covered wagon was incessant and irritating. Thorin heaved a sigh, pushing himself to sit up from the makeshift bed, body swaying as the wheels churned through the dirt and mud.

He buried his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

Pathetic. He was utterly pathetic. Days and nights had passed without his notice, and though he knew they were on their way to the Shire, he didn't know where they were. Past Mirkwood, for sure. And the Misty Mountain path? He didn't know.

He couldn't summon the energy to care.

Something had sapped all his vitality from him. He'd been drained of it so suddenly he was still reeling from the grey, ashen expanse left inside of him. What sort of life was this? Could he even call it life, to live while so empty? It was as if his spirit had gone, leaving behind a clumsy suit of bone and skin.

“Ah, you're awake.”

Thorin looked up as Bilbo clambered into the back of the wagon, shaking the rain from his curls.

“I am,” he replied, taking a blanket and handing it over. Bilbo took it with a sniffle and a nod, starting to dry his hair.

“And how are you feeling?”

“The same.”

If Bilbo was disappointed with the answer he hid it well. Still, Thorin searched his face for it. A narrowing of the eyes, a tightening of the jaw... anything to prove that Bilbo too thought him hopeless.

“Well, if you ask me, I think having you sitting and talking is a marked improvement,” Bilbo replied with a shrug, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. “Are you hungry?”

Thorin shook his head, dropping his gaze down to his clasped hands. A sudden rush of emotion choked him, burning his throat and making the ends of his fingers and his toes sting. He fought against it, pushing it back.

He should not be here. He should be ruling Erebor, doing his duty and proving himself a worthy king, or he should be entombed and left to sleep – forgotten and gone. Not riding in some ridiculous wagon to the Shire under the pretence of a honeymoon. He couldn't continue like this. It was an insult to his family. To his kin, to his ancestors, to Mahal himself.

He was the worst example of a dwarf, and an embarrassment to the line of Durin.

“I should abdicate,” he gritted out, voice hoarse and raw. “Fíli should rule, or Dís. I should go back to some village of men and...” he trailed off, digging his fingernails against his palms.

“Yesterday you said we should turn around and you should be in Erebor,” Bilbo said, as calmly as if he was talking about vegetables or the weather. “And the day before that, you said I should leave you to wander Mirkwood for eternity.”

“You think my mind is not my own,” Thorin said, the burning tide of emotion ebbing so fast he felt deflated. “You think I am just like my father. My grandfather.”

“I don't think any of those things at all, but I'm beginning to think that's what _you_ think. Thorin, listen to me. This is a storm. Perhaps it was something that creature did, but this is a storm, and I think you are passing through the worst of it. And maybe this is the eye of it, and you'll feel worse again, but I think it will pass. I know it will.”

Thorin looked up at him. Bilbo's face was serious, but there was a softness around the edges of his expression. His chest felt tight.

“How can you know that?”

Bilbo quirked a little smile.

“Because despite it all you've won every battle you've fought so far, haven't you? Even death itself. Now I know you still don't think that as much of a comfort, but it is to me. For whatever reason, I think you're meant to be here and you're meant to be alive. That's what I think, anyway, and perhaps it's a silly old fool's hope, but if I learned one thing on this blasted adventure, it's that hope can do an awful lot of good for a person. Now. I know you said you're not hungry but I am, so I'm going to get some rations and maybe you'll join me. I hope you will, anyway.”

Thorin felt his lips twitch as he nodded his head. The tightness in his chest seemed to tighten further and relax all at once as Bilbo grinned, clambering out the cart with the blanket around his shoulders like some cape.

Hope.

He looked back down to his scarred and calloused palms. Hope was a distant memory, and when he tried to grasp onto it, it dispersed like fog between his fingers. But he could still remember the thrill of it, and while he couldn't conjure the true feeling behind it, he hoped Bilbo was right.

Mahal, he hoped Bilbo was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Someone reported my fics on Ao3 - This is why!](http://yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com/post/148307664796/so-someone-reported-me-on-ao3)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> If you or anyone you know shows symptoms of what's been detailed in this chapter, you can find a [good list of hotlines here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/post/21961172409/accepting-help-is-brave-hotlinescrisis-lines), as well as [a good list of chatrooms here](http://mentalillnessmouse.tumblr.com/chatrooms). 
> 
> You can find [me](http://www.yubiwamonogatari.tumblr.com), [Tea](http://www.mcmanatea.tumblr.com), [Mith](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com), and [Ruto](http://www.rutobuka2.tumblr.com) all on tumblr! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sending them a message, too! 
> 
> The amount of work these amazing people put in as betas can never be measured. They dedicate so much time and effort, and I'm so grateful for their insight and work.
> 
> [The Forge Sits Silent](https://soundcloud.com/determamfidd/the-forge-sits-silent).  
> [Youtube video of 'Ibinê Mim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hkO2lfw-mn4).  
> [Azhâr's soundcloud](https://soundcloud.com/yubiwamonogatari).
> 
> List of Khuzdul, Quenya, and Sindarin used in order of appearance:  
> Amrâl - Love  
> Nadad - brother


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